Lost Without My Blogger
by starrysummernights
Summary: John is abducted and declared dead. How will Sherlock cope without his blogger? How will he react when John comes back from the "dead?" Drama and angst with a healthy dose of romance. Eventual Johnlock. Rated M for implied torture and slash. Sequel of one-shots now uploaded. Cover art by ilojleen (link on profile page).
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone! Props go to mylia11 for the original idea of John going missing and being declared dead. I am afraid I may have ran with this and I hope I have not butchered your idea! Please read and review! :)**

* * *

"Sir, they've found another one."

Donovan's voice made Detective Inspector Lestrade sick to his stomach. _Another one_. Another child murdered, found at a seemingly random dump site. Lestrade and Donovan shared a grim look across his office.

"Sir,…I never thought I'd be saying this but…perhaps it's time to call the freak in on this one." Donovan shook her head and came further into Lestrade's office, sinking down onto one of the chairs and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to have to see another one."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. He did not want to tell another crying mother that her missing child was now a dead child, see her shocked face as she took in the carnage that had once been her precious offspring, butchered beyond recognition after the serial killer had gotten their hands on them.

"It's always worse when it's a kid." He said quietly. He should know. Lestrade had been a police officer for more than 20 years and he was no stranger to violent deaths, blood, horrific scenes that even years later still gave him nightmares. When such atrocities were done to children though…it made the crime so much more sinister and evil, disgusting and outrageous.

"I know he's not the most stable right now but…"Donovan sighed, her face set. "If Sherlock Holmes can solve this, we need him."

* * *

Lestrade pulled up outside 221B Baker Street and sighed heavily, preparing himself before he went in to deal with Sherlock. Things had definitely changed. Dealing with Sherlock had always been a tetchy encounter but now it was almost unbearable. He hated seeing Sherlock this way, would welcome a scathing retort or keen eyes picking up on the fact that his wife was cheating on him again_. Anything_ would be preferable to _this_.

Lestrade had been given a key by a grim-faced Mycroft two months ago and instructed to use it as he saw fit. Thus far, Lestrade had only used the key a total of 4 times. He disliked the idea of spying on Sherlock but when he became particularly worried, or when Sherlock would not answer his texts, he had been forced to use the key and make sure the genius consulting detective was still alive.

Lestrade entered the flat through the kitchen and took in the sight that met him with shock. It looked as if a lab had exploded, literally. There was a huge black burn mark decorating a large portion of the cabinets, from ceiling to floor. Petri dishes, test tubes, various vials filled with colored liquids, two different microscopes, and organic looking specimens (Lestrade was careful not to get too close) covered the kitchen table. It was obvious that Mrs. Hudson no longer came up here to clean. A faint odor of smoke hung in the air and Lestrade desperately hoped it was not poisonous.

Curious, Lestrade opened the fridge; knowledgeable of what sights might meet him. He sighed in frustration when he saw the array of test subjects and experiments-in-progress: human head, baggie of toes, two whole legs bent grotesquely in order to fit, and what looked like a human heart suspended in frozen liquid. There was not one thing in the fridge that could be considered edible and Lestrade knew, closing the fridge with a shudder, that there would be nothing edible in the cabinets either.

Sherlock was standing in front of one of the large windows, clad in his dressing gown, old shirt, and pajama bottoms, his bare feet peeking out from beneath the hem. He held his violin, bow poised as if about to play, but Lestrade had heard no sounds of music when he pulled up, nor as he was investigating the flat. Not thinking then, Lestrade thought.

"Am I to be subjected to another drugs bust, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade flinched at the cold voice but refused to feel ashamed. A month ago, he and his team had indeed conducted a drugs bust on 221B Baker Street, a very real drugs bust. They had, much to Lestrade's relief, found nothing. He had been very afraid they would.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned around, his eyes piercing, and began deducing Lestrade. Lestrade felt the familiar eyes sweep about his face, then his person, picking up information from seemingly mundane details. Lestrade would never understand how he did it but the fact that Sherlock was deducing again was something of a relief. Maybe it was a sign he was returning back to his old self.

Sherlock's face was wiped clean of all emotion. "You need me." It was not a question.

"Serial killer, targets children, picks them up on their way home from school. Haven't you read the papers?" Lestrade knew Sherlock had been isolating himself in the flat but he had assumed the young man would have at least heard about this new serial killer. The press was having a field day with him, Lestrade was working more hours than he ever had in his life, and everyone's nerves were frayed. Parents were fearful of letting their children out to walk alone and the entire nation, it seemed, was in uproar. Lestrade found it hard to believe that Sherlock Holmes, who had used to take such perverse pleasure in crimes, could have remained oblivious.

Sherlock merely shrugged and turned back to the window, declining to comment and beginning to play a very melancholy piece, effectively dismissing Lestrade.

Lestrade did not want to do this, did not want to push Sherlock. Mycroft had ordered him not to send Sherlock on any cases for a few months, to give his little brother some space.

"He will work this out on his own, Detective Inspector. Feelings and sentiment have never been my brother's particular forte. They are his weakness. He does not understand them and now he has no one to help him wade through them and he is floundering. He will find his way back, eventually. _Do not push him_. I will not be responsible for how he reacts if you do."

Now, just past noon, Lestrade could almost visualize some small child, running out of school, large backpack rattling about on their back, full of smiles and laughter and hope. He could see that small child being abducted by some nameless, faceless stranger and then brutally murdered, the child's body dumped somewhere obvious. Lestrade knew, with a sick feeling in his stomach, that unless Sherlock helped on this case, he would be standing above another bloody little body either tonight or tomorrow, still stumbling about with no clues, still trying to figure out who was doing this- and with no leads. Nothing to go on. It was sickening.

"Sherlock, we _need_ you on this case."

There was no reply and Sherlock continued to play, his mind elsewhere, blocking out the Detective Inspector, blocking out Baker Street. Lestrade wondered what he was thinking of and then decided that he really didn't want to know, although he could probably guess. It was torture, watching Sherlock, who had such a brilliant mind, destroy himself like this. He already looked much too skinny. He had not had any weight to lose and now the young man looked very unhealthy. His wildly curling hair was longer than Lestrade had ever seen it, completing obscuring his ears, but at least it was washed and clean.

He never went out anymore, never helped with any cases, and rarely returned texts. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade knew, was still trying to make him eat but her success varied.

Lestrade looked about the rest of the flat, noting that it seemed attempts had been made to keep this area clean. No doubt Mrs. Hudson was afraid to touch anything in the kitchen but clearly thought nothing truly sinister or gross would be harbored in the living room. Everything seemed the way it had been two months ago…except it just seemed empty. Hollow. Lestrade thought that it was his imagination getting fanciful, but the place just seemed…well, flat. Dark and depressing, even with the curtain open and allowing the summer sun to spill in.

There were still traces of John in the flat. His laptop was still on the table, his jacket hung in the hallway, and Lestrade was beginning to suspect that his bedroom would look just the same as it had been before… He had never known Sherlock to act this way. It was very unlike the cold, "sociopath" Sherlock presented to the world.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired face. There was no hope for it. He _needed_ Sherlock on this case.

"John would have wanted you to take the case."

The violin made a truly horrible shrieking sound as Sherlock viciously slashed the bow across the strings. He whirled around, throwing his violin and bow away.

"Do not _presume_ to tell me what John would or would not have wanted!" he hissed, his face transported in anger, lips pulled back in a snarl that made Lestrade uneasy. "I knew him better than anyone- don't you think I know what he would have looked like at the exact moment you informed me children were involved? I know _precisely_ what he would have _said_!"

Lestrade had known Sherlock for years, helped him purge the drugs from his system, given him cases and worked with him, seen him transported by a dead body and the thrill of the game, conversed with him after a man "accidentally" fell out the window, - but he had never seen the man so _deranged_ before. He held out his hands, placating.

"I know that, Sherlock." When Sherlock continued to glare at Lestrade, he tried again. "We all miss him, you know. He was a good man. He wouldn't have wanted you to live…like this." He waved his hand to the flat in general.

Sherlock snorted derisively, turning away from Lestrade, his hands clenched at his sides.

"I won't go in the police car. I'll follow right behind. Text me the address."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and- omg! I have 25 people following this story! Wow. Thanks so much! *happy screams* Also, thanks to those who have already favorited this story :) **

**Please review and let me know how I am doing. I LOVE reviews. They make me happy, even if you are giving me constructive criticism. It is appreciated. :) Enjoy.**

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John's head hurt, his entire body ached in various ways: throbbing, burning, stinging, sore. He wanted to yell and scream, even cry as the pain reached staggering crescendos inside his body, but he had already done that, ages ago, and it had gotten him nowhere. Now he sat, enduring the pain, thinking, wishing he were as smart as Sherlock. Sherlock would have already planned a brilliant and daring escape, no problem. John was not that smart and he had limited facts to work with.

He didn't know where he was, above ground or below, and he didn't know how long he had been there. His captors sometimes kept him drugged, nothing hallucinogenic, which seemed a small mercy, but it was something that made John unconscious for long period of time. At least, he _thought_ they were long periods of time. In actual fact, it could only be an hour, or mere minutes. There were no windows in his small room and his captors controlled the lighting. There seemed to be no set pattern to when they would turn the lights on or off, though they mostly stayed off.

All John knew was pain, darkness, and fear that burned like acid on the back of his tongue. He refused to give into that fear, the clawing panic in his chest that told him he would never get out of this alive. In his worst moments, he thought he was buried alive, knowing only the darkness and silence, punctuated by his own breathing. His captors left him alone for so long that he would wonder…had they abandoned him, left him to die? Had that last meal been just that- his last?

He was restrained; manacles encircled each of his wrists and were attached to chains that clinked every time he moved. He could only walk in a small semi-circle. The ground was smooth beneath his feet and the walls were bumpy, rough concrete. He was sure Sherlock could have licked the wall, told him what brand of concrete it was, the exact place the concrete had been mixed, and also, depending on the flavor, where they were. He would then begin issuing orders and planning an escape. The thought made John smile and hysterical laughter bubbled up.

He stopped that at once. Early in this captivity, John had made the decision that he would get out of this in some way- and he would do so with his mind still firmly hinged. He was a soldier. He would not go crazy, no matter what was thrown at him. He had survived as Sherlock's flat-mate for a year, dealing with human organs in places they had no reason to be, gunshots at all hours of the night, and racing after dangerous criminals and _laughing_ about it with Sherlock. He would survive this, no problem. He had to stay focused.

A lot had been thrown at him. There had been multiple beatings, prolonged darkness, prolonged exposure to light, and starving for days but refusing to beg for food and water. John would not give his captors that satisfaction. Nerves of steel, Sherlock had said. He was trying to live up to that and make him proud. Huffing out a breath, John thought he was doing a pretty good job.

He always tried to get a good look at the people who were holding him hostage when they brought him meals and/or beat him. They wore ski masks, however, and even going by their eye color (brown, blue, and green) that was not enough for John to go on in order to determine who held him. They never asked him questions, never tried to get any information from him. They were silent as they tended to him. It was unnerving, truly. Why did they have him? What did they want? Why were they doing this?

John was sure Sherlock was going crazy trying to find where he was. In his darkest hour, when hope seemed very feeble, John held on to the belief that Sherlock would find him and rescue him. John hated feeling like a damsel in distress waiting on Sherlock and wished he could do something to break free himself. Sherlock had rescued him in the past though and he would rescue him this time as well. Eventually. He had absolute faith in Sherlock. He just wished it were not taking Sherlock so very long to find him. John smiled- he knew Sherlock would be giving Lestrade and Mycroft hell in his attempts to find him.

It was with this thought, of Sherlock manic and racing about, shouting out deductions and insults, that John managed to fall asleep.

* * *

The blinding light woke John from his doze. Jerking upright and shielding his eyes, he heard the door open and close. Staggering to his feet, refusing to remain curled in a ball on the floor no matter what they decided to do to him, John blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. When he managed to see the man standing before him, his stomach bottomed out and he stared with absolute disbelief.

Moriarty.

The man was impeccably dressed, hands in the pockets of his trousers, and was staring at John with glittering, calculating eyes. He smiled; a slow, evil smirk and John felt a chill ghost down his back. He still vividly remembered being abducted before, waking to a bomb strapped to his body, forced to meet Sherlock, and then the tense standoff with Moriarty. Pieces clicked into place in his mind- this was the same scenario.

John realized he should not be very surprised. After the pool incident, Moriarty had promised that he would be in touch. John realized this was perhaps the "in touch."

Moriarty tsked. "I thought you'd be happy to see me again, John, but judging from your expression that's not true, is it?"

"You. You're the one who's been doing this." John's voice was steady, weak, but steady. Nerves of steel.

"Very _good_, John. Who says pets can't be trained? All they need is a little motivation." Moriarty's cool eyes flicked down John's body, taking in the wounds and blood. His smile widened. "I don't like to get my hands dirty. Surely you realized that by now, John."

"So you won't be the one who kills me." Indifference, good.

Moriarty blanched and began strolling towards John.

"I don't want to kill you." he shook his head. "That would be rash and stupid on my part, and I am never either of those things, John. I may have use of you eventually. Sherlock may need a little persuasion. I may grow bored." He shrugged. It obviously mattered little to him what became of John.

"Sherlock will find me; if that's the game you're playing with him." John felt sure of this and his conviction was evident in his voice.

Moriarty laughed and shook his head, staring at John as if he had done something indescribably cute. "We're not playing a game, John. Not yet, and not with you. You are here because I hate you. Because I wanted to separate you from Sherlock and make him into the genius he was meant to be. With you always hanging around," he shrugged, "you got in the way, made him question himself and his decisions. With you gone, that annoying habit has all but stopped. I give it a few more months and Sherlock will truly be an equal match for myself."

"Months?" John's stomach clenched. He had already been here for months? No, it was not possible. Moriarty was lying. Sherlock would have found him by now. Moriarty was just trying to fuck with his head, trying to make him crack, but he refused. He had not been here that long. One month maybe, but not months, plural.

"Do you really think he's looking for you?" Moriarty whispered, sounding like the calm voice of reason in the middle of a tempest. "Do you really think that the great Sherlock Holmes, with all his brilliant deductions, would not have found you by now- if he really wanted to?" He smirked, staring at John and liking the effect these words obviously had on him.

"He doesn't want to find you. You know he loves the games we play together," Moriarty whispered, his eyes dancing with glee. "You could never compete with me, with the high he gets playing our games."

Moriarty turned and began walking away. "I hope you like your accommodations here, John. You'll probably be here for a while."

His mocking laughter was the last sound John heard before the door closed.


	3. Chapter 3

__**Thanks everyone! I hope you enjoy the latest chapter! Please read and review to let me know how I am doing! Thanks! **

_Two Months Earlier_

It was a regular day at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was bored, acutely so, and had found John's gun. John had started hiding it in order to prevent Sherlock from using it. It took Sherlock 5 minutes of quiet deduction, standing in the middle of John's room before he found the gun (hidden in a shoebox in the back of John's closet). John was not in the flat at the time, was still at the surgery, and so Sherlock was able to repaint his yellow smiley face, which Mrs. Hudson had so rudely papered over, and shoot as much as he wanted. He had been doing this for a while, trying to devise a new experiment involving gunpowder, when the front door opened with a bang and John's heavy, angry footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John's angry voice always projected much louder than his usual one. Sherlock knew this was because of his time spent in the army. John was used to barking out orders and having them obeyed. Emotions such as anger or stress unleashed his loud, commanding army voice. Sherlock rather liked it and he had yet to find out why. He only knew that it made him feel odd inside.

"You should still be at the surgery. Mrs. Hudson called you."

"She was scared you would hurt yourself or somebody. Sherlock, how many times have I told you _not_ to touch my gun? What were you thinking?"

"Bored."

John's fists clenched. "_Stop_ acting like a child and find something to do, Sherlock. You can't keep stealing my gun and shooting holes in the wall. I can't keep missing work to stop you from doing something stupid! We do have rent and bills to pay and those do not just magically go away! Did you ever stop and think that one day you may accidentally shoot someone?"

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "Please. I am always fully aware of where I aim."

"That's not the _point_, Sherlock." John strode over and snatched his gun from Sherlock's limp hand, turning away to make sure the clip was empty. His pulse was pounding and he could feel his face getting very red. He knew it was not a good idea to be so angry at Sherlock but he had been dealing with the bored consulting detective for the past two days. His day at the surgery had been horrible before he got a frantic call from Mrs. Hudson. Now, John felt his temper beating under his skin and knew he needed to get away.

Sherlock sat up on the couch and began deducing John, something that he knew irritated his flat-mate but he was so bored! It was partially John's fault he was bored- if he would give up his hateful job at the surgery and stay with Sherlock…

"You're very tense. Work was not going well, too many patients at the surgery and I see that a little girl vomited on your shoes. You tried to get rid of that but your shoelaces are still disgusting. You haven't heard from your sister in a few days, most likely because she is drunk. Your recent date did not go well, hence the reason you have not gone on another in a week and this is contributing to your frustration-"

"That may have had something to do with you constantly texting me during the date, _Sherlock_." John snapped, placing the gun on the kitchen table and turning to glare at his flat-mate.

"Feeble excuse, John. You wanted to be interrupted by me otherwise you would have turned the phone off and ignored it. You were hoping for a case, we both are, but Lestrade hasn't anything and there's nothing on the website."

"There was no case on, you were just texting nonsense about needing me for an experiment which turned out to be nothing more than me handing you your bloody phone. Why does everything become an emergency when I am on a date anyway? You think I'm an idiot but I do realize that everything goes to hell with you when I go on a date." John crossed his arms and tried to regulate his breathing, counting to ten and trying to censor his mouth before he said something he would regret later. The past few days had been particularly trying, dealing with a bored genius was never easy, and at the moment every little thing Sherlock did annoyed John. He knew it was irrational but, there it was.

"You see but do not observe, John."

"What is that supposed to mean?" John shook his head tiredly, deciding to walk away from the argument and see what there was to eat in the fridge.

"I wouldn't open that, John."

John opened the fridge. Their row escalated from there.

John stormed out of the flat.

Sherlock was not surprised when he looked up at the clock and realized John had been gone for 3 hours. John had been very angry and he was probably still walking, trying to control his temper. They had not had such a heated row in months and until John was calm again, he would not return to 221B. It was possible, though unlikely considering that John had work tomorrow, that he may go to his regular pub round the corner. John never got drunk- time spent taking care of his alcoholic sister had turned him off that- but he liked to enjoy a pint now and again.

When John failed to turn up that night, Sherlock was still not concerned. Molly had delivered with a few new test subjects in the form of hands and Sherlock, taking turns dipping each digit in acid, was no longer bored. He assumed John was staying at Sarah's or another of his friends. He eventually finished experimenting with the hands and acid, set the whole thing alight, and, once the firefighters had left the flat, decided he was actually tired and went to bed.

When John did not appear the next evening after he should have arrived home from the surgery, Sherlock began to worry. He sent multiple texts, even called, and, when everything went unanswered, realized something bad must have happened to John. Even if John were still angry with him, he would let Sherlock know where he was- he would answer a text or phone call. Even if it were to tell Sherlock to piss off, John would answer.

Sherlock had just put on his coat and scarf, intending to go out in search of John, when Mycroft appeared at the bottom of the stairs, looking unusually grave.

"No, time, Mycroft." Sherlock said shortly, brushing past him and reaching for the door.

"You won't find Doctor Watson, Sherlock."

Sherlock froze, turning to look at his brother with a frown.

Mycroft told him the news. They had found John's body. Shot in the back of the head, apparent robbery gone wrong, very little of his face remained. It had been hard to identify the body but Mycroft had done it. They had him at St. Bart's.

"I will accompany you." Mycroft's cool voice determined. Sherlock barely heard him.

The entire ride in Mycroft's car to the morgue was silent, Sherlock's mind seemed jammed. He kept replaying his last moments with John as if there were a hidden piece of information that would make sense. John had not said where he was going, Sherlock had not looked to see which direction he headed in. He could not have gotten shot. What Mycroft was saying made no sense. How could John be dead? John was a soldier, trained in self-defense. How could he have been shot in a failed robbery?

It took Sherlock 127 echoing steps to reach the morgue and stand beside the metal examination table which supported a short figure draped with a sheet. Molly stood on the other side and gazed at him through eyes glazed with tears, but Sherlock blocked her out. He only had eyes for the body covered by the sheet.

The sheet was folded back and Sherlock stared. There was very little left of the man's face. A large exit wound, large caliber gun, held against the back of his head in order to create such distortion.

_John was dead_.

"No. That's not him." Sherlock's voice was deep and rough, and he saw Molly and Mycroft exchange a look.

"Sherlock, this has obviously been a shock-"

"That's not John!" he said, reaching forward to jerk at the man's ridiculous wheat colored jumper- why did John always wear these things? He jerked it down over the man's shoulder, a sick feeling in his gut, to reveal…a scar. John's wound from Afghanistan. It was there, a mass of pink scar tissue that Sherlock had seen on multiple occasions when John had not been aware of him looking. Sherlock had memorized it, storing the information in his Mind Palace with the rest of his vast knowledge of John Watson.

He stood and stared and tried to make sense that this was John, John was dead, this was- Sherlock suddenly jerked away from the table, gagging. Sherlock was aware his hands were shaking, covered in blood- John's blood. John's _blood._ John was dead.

John was dead.

John was dead.

Sherlock shook his head and backed away, blinking rapidly, unable to look away from the absolute wreck on the table that had once been John Hamish Watson.

* * *

Sherlock had brilliantly worked the case of the serial killer who targeted children. He caught the killer minutes before he would have killed his next victim, with all the dramatic flair and cutting insults everyone had come to expect. After the case, Sherlock began pestering Lestrade for more cases and turned up at the morgue to accept new test subjects from Molly. Mrs. Hudson complained of holes being shot into her walls, horrible noises and bangs at all hours of the night. In general, Sherlock seemed to be acting like his old self again, much to everyone's relief.

It was a month after the serial killer case that Lestrade visited Sherlock again. He had been texting the consulting detective but Sherlock was not answering his phone- very unusual. A sick feeling in the pit of Lestrade's gut had made him visit Baker Street. He knew from experience that the ones who seemed perfectly fine sometimes harbored deep sadness and pain. It was possible that Sherlock was still depressed and Lestrade thought about suicides, experiments gone wrong in that deathtrap of a kitchen, or accidental cocaine overdoses as he ran up the stairs to the flat.

When he stepped into 221B, Lestrade stared around him in shock. The flat looked completely different from the last time he was here. It had been vigorously purged of everything John related. The stabbed-to-the-wall Cluedo board was gone, his jacket, cups, laptop, books, table….everything. Even John's armchair, which had sat facing Sherlock's, was gone. Lestrade was sure that if he went upstairs, John's bedroom would be completely empty.

"Did you need something, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade looked to the kitchen from where the cold, bored voice had come. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table peering into his microscope, frowning.

"You weren't answering your mobile-"

"Ah, and so you were afraid I had offed myself? Not to worry, I am sure if I ever choose to do so I will do it in as grand and dramatic a fashion as possible. It will not be something you could miss."

"It's…good to see you've cleaned the place out a bit. Where did you put all John's things?"

"Why would I keep that rubbish? I binned everything."

Lestrade was staggered by the callousness of binning John's possessions. "Sherlock, what…what's the matter with you? Why would you just throw everything out?"

"I fail to understand what you mean, Detective Inspector. It was only practical to move those things out. It is not as if they were being used."

"Did his sister come pick them up?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I suppose. The rest was thrown away. No reason to keep it, cluttering up space. I have been thinking of using the room upstairs for a lab. I am not sure Mrs. Hudson would approve though." Sherlock trailed off thoughtfully, and then bent his head back to the microscope.

Lestrade stood awkwardly and studied Sherlock. He still looked much too thin, there were dark circles under his eyes, and there was something about his eyes that Lestrade did not like. They looked…dead, dull. He cleared his throat and decided to try talking about his feelings, knowing he was more likely to get cut down for his efforts.

"Have you visited his grave?"

"Why would I waste time doing that? I am busy with various experiments, a few are at critical stages- there's no time to waste on a fool's errand."

"A _fool's errand_? Sherlock, John was your best friend-"

"Yes, and now he's dead. Keeping his possessions and visiting his grave will not bring him back. What is your point, Lestrade?" Sherlock turned to him in irritation, an annoyed frown on his face.

Lestrade stared back at him. "Nothing. Not a damn thing." He turned away, shaking his head. "Answer your damn phone, I'll text you about the case I need you on."

Sherlock turned back to his experiment, placing a new slide under the microscope and adjusting the eye piece. He sat in front of the experiment for long minutes after Lestrade slammed the door behind him, not moving, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Finally, he stood up and padded on silent feet into his bedroom, closing and locking the door, then unerringly going to his closet and pulling out a heavy plastic garment bag. Sherlock's shaking fingers pulled the zip and, sinking down to sit on the floor, he pulled out a red jumper.

He ran his fingers across the fabric, the pattern of the wool already memorized but the gesture was calming, brought back memories of touching the same jumper in different scenarios, each one firmly etched in his Mind Palace. He brought the jumper up to his face and buried his nose in it, inhaling deeply. Faint traces of tea, soap, medical smells from the surgery, laundry detergent, an underlying tone- _John_.

His breath stuttered out and he felt tears pricking his eyes but he clenched his eyelids closed and refused to let the tears fall. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and attempted to bring his emotions under control. It was pointless to feel this way. Crying over John Watson would not bring him back. When he breathed deeply again, however, the smell that was uniquely John hit him and his face crumbled. Hot tears raced down his cheeks and Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper and wept.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to everyone! I am blown away by everyone who is liking this fic! :) I know the angst level is high right now, but please stick around. :) We will survive!**

**Please, please, please review! Reviews make me write faster...I promise!  
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Running a government was not an easy task. Not just anyone could do it. It took a certain kind of person, a person willing to risk everything that was dear and precious to them, risk their own sense of self, risk hating themselves when they looked in the mirror. Decisions had to be made that affected not just one person, but millions, billions, possibly everyone on the planet. These decisions had to be made with a rational mind that took in all the important facts and figures and acted accordingly, eschewing feelings and sentiment. Sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Caring was not an advantage.

Mycroft Holmes hated himself. He had started feeling that way when he entered the government years ago. The feeling had grown over the years, finally reaching the point where he hated his own company, hated the man who stared back at him in the mirror, and hated the man who was reflected for what he truly was in his little brother's eyes: a soulless machine. Most of all, Mycroft hated himself for what he had purposefully done to his brother.

Mycroft was aware that John had been taken by Jim Moriarty. He had a spy who was working in Morarity's extensive web and was informing Mycroft directly of everything that was occurring. He had not told Mycroft in time to stop the abduction, but he was able to tell him after it took place. He was even able to tell him exactly where John was being held and in what conditions. Mycroft knew when John was fed, when he was tortured, knew how long he was denied sleep, how long he was kept in the dark. His spy was well placed to give him this information, as he was the one who was responsible for the care of John.

Mycroft the older brother would have done anything to rescue John Watson because he knew the man was important to his little brother. Mycroft knew Sherlock better than his little brother thought he did and Mycroft knew that John Watson was Sherlock's only friend. He knew Sherlock harbored a foolish love for the little army doctor, and would do anything to protect John. Mycroft the older brother knew it would destroy Sherlock to know of John's capture and torture at the hands of a true madman like Jim Moriarty.

Mycroft the British Government did not think twice of sacrificing _one_ man for the good of the cause. He knew it was too risky to raid Moriarty's lair for one man. It could destroy the work of months, years even, if he tried to help John escape, or went in after him. It would expose his spy, the flow of useful information would cease, Moriarty's plans would no longer be known to them, and countless people could suffer. Sentiment could in no way be a factor in the decision making process.

John Watson became expendable.

Mycroft knew Sherlock would never allow the matter to rest if he knew John was being held captive. He would go to the ends of the earth to find John and heaven help anyone who got in his way. Sherlock's actions to rescue John could destroy years of careful planning by Mycroft and his people in infiltrating Moriarty's web. So he had made Sherlock believe John was dead.

When the dead body had shown up, bearing a striking resemblance to Dr. John Hamish Watson, Mycroft had played along, telling Sherlock the tests that had been performed to guarantee that the body in front of him was the real John Watson. As he talked, Mycroft could feel bits of his heart, which he had thought gone years ago, dying. Sherlock's reaction…he would never forget the look on his little brother's face as he desperately tried to prove that John was not dead. Mycroft could close his eyes and still see Sherlock backing away from the table, his hands covered in blood, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. It had been years since Mycroft had seen his little brother, the self-proclaimed sociopath, show such raw emotion, years since he had seen Sherlock actually cry. It was permanently etched in his mind and would haunt him for years, he was sure.


	5. Chapter 5

**Angst levels are getting pretty high, as people have been telling me. I promise some sweet relief soon.**

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John knew he was going to die. His captors had left him alone for too long and he knew they were not coming back this time. The incessant hunger beating throughout his entire body knew he was dying. The various aches and pains were muted, ready for the end to come. Even his breathing was shallow and it felt as if not enough oxygen were getting to his lungs. John was an experienced doctor and he knew the signs when someone was nearing the end. He was aware that he was dehydrated, undernourished, and there was only a matter of time before his body began shutting down, killing itself. John knew he was dying. He had accepted that.

His only regret was that he would not see Sherlock again. It was odd, he supposed, that he was not thinking of his sister or friends, only Sherlock. He loved Sherlock, though, and he had never told him that so John figured it was natural he would want to see Sherlock and tell him how he felt. He smiled, remembering that first night with Sherlock, running about London and solving the case of the murderous cabbie. He had never felt more alive and he had never fallen so hard so quickly for a person in his entire life. Sherlock was not like anyone else, and John had been hooked from the start, falling in love with keen, deducing eyes, curly brown hair, sharp cheekbones, quicksilver emotions, and a mind that constantly left him staggered.

He remembered moments when the words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he had refrained from saying them, thinking they may have been unwelcome. Now, feeling his body shutting down, preparing himself for death, John wondered why he had never said those little simple words. It seemed so idiotic for him to have never said them. He and Sherlock led a dangerous life anyway, one or the other could be taken away at any moment and John had delayed. Idiot. John's smile grew wider as he could almost hear Sherlock make this pronouncement.

A small noise made him jerk his eyes open and John's face split into a wide, incredulous grin as he saw Sherlock, dressed in his long coat and blue scarf, curly hair ruffled from running, walking quietly towards him. Relief, sharp and poignant, raced through John's defeated body. _Sherlock had found him_, they were leaving and John was getting out of this hellhole. Sherlock put his finger to his lips, warning John to be quiet.

"I knew you'd come." John whispered, his voice sounding painfully hoarse. He could not remember the last time he had used it for anything other than screaming. He painfully maneuvered himself up and limped a few steps towards the tall consulting detective. "Took you longer than I expected to find me."

Sherlock grinned at him, his eyes lighting up as they always did when he saw John. His eyes flicked over John and John knew he was analyzing the injuries, deducing what had caused each one and whether John would be able to escape quickly and quietly or not and how this would affect Sherlock's exit strategy.

"I'll be fine. I'm still able to limp out of here" John sighed happily, content to stare at Sherlock as the consulting detective continued to look at him. "I'm so glad to see you." He was slightly embarrassed when his voice cracked, his eyes filling with tears. Sherlock smiled, his eyes softening, as he continued looking John over.

"I love you, you know."

Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet his, shocked, and John laughed a little watery laugh.

"I knew you'd be surprised." He whispered. "How could you never deduce it?" he began limping towards Sherlock who remained rooted to the spot. "I thought you realized that first night at Angelo's when you let me down but then it seemed like you doubted yourself. I've loved you ever since then, Sherlock. I've wanted to tell you but I was a coward. I didn't mean what I said that last day at the flat and I should have just snogged you out of your boredom. I promise, when we get home, I'll do just that whenever you're bored." John laughed, scratchy and painful. "I hope you're bored a lot. I'm so in love with you."

John had walked as far as his chains would allow him. The manacles encircling his wrists had long since rubbed raw rings round his wrists that pulsed in agony and bled. He knew they were infected but his access to medical supplies was nil at the moment. He had ripped off pieces of his shirt and wrapped his bleeding wrists in the strips of cloth to have a little protection from the unrelenting metal. Now he strained against these, standing feet from Sherlock, and desperately wanting to reach out and touch him.

"Please…say something. Come closer." He begged, unable to stand not touching the stunned detective for a minute longer. He had waited forever, it seemed, to get to this moment.

Sherlock hesitated, it was obvious he was still in shock that John loved him, but then he smiled, a slow spread of a smile, joyous, and John's heart skipped a beat. Sherlock stepped forward, closer and closer, and bent his head. John sighed and closed his eyes in anticipation of the long-awaited kiss.

Before their lips touched, the hallucination disappeared, leaving John lonelier than he had ever been.

* * *

The time was right. It had taken 6 months of careful planning, subterfuge, and stealth, but finally the time was right to strike out against Jim Moriarty and end his reign of terror, dismantle his web once and for all.

Mycroft and his men were ready.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks to everyone for liking this fic! I am so gratified! I know the angst level has been pretty high lately and I apologize. We are nearing the end of that. :)**

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When the door was thrown open, John threw up his arm to protect his eyes from the sudden blinding light. After so long spent in the darkness, his eyes exploded in agony and when he was able to blink again, his eyes watering and his vision very fuzzy, from dehydration he knew, he could barely make out a dark figure quickly walking towards him, gun drawn. John wondered if this was another hallucination or if this were the moment he would finally be killed.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, his voice barely making a sound it was so weak.

"Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson, we don't have much time- we have to move now!" The man spoke in a low, urgent voice, a voice that was decidedly not Sherlock's. John's spirits sank.

The man produced a key and began unlocking John's chains. John's mind was moving sluggishly, was having a very hard time understanding what was going on as the stranger hauled him to his feet and began dragging him towards the open door. Every muscle in his body protested the movement and his broken bones gave god-awful wrenches with each pull.

John managed not to scream in agony, though his breathing was labored and hard. He grasped the other man by his coat, and stumbled after him as best he was able.

"What's going on? Who are you?" He slurred, his voice sounding very gravely and rough. The man holding him did not pause as he half-carried John out of his prison door and into a brightly lit corridor. The sounds of gunfire came from above them, shouts and screams, heavy thuds and the running of feet. John shook his head, trying to make sense of the noises that were nothing but a dull roar in his ears. The sound of his erratic heartbeat seemed to drown out all other noises.

"A friend who's here to help you. Now, come on, Doctor Watson, they told me you were a soldier! We're getting you out of here."

John tightened his grip on his rescuer's coat and did his best to keep up with the man. He decided to go along with this. If it was a dream or hallucination, it was the best sounding one he could have thought of.

* * *

The short man limped into the lab at St. Bart's and Sherlock briefly looked up, deducing him in half a second- but unable to dismiss him. There was _something_ about the man- John Watson- that remained a mystery to Sherlock and that intrigued him-

John threw back his head, laughing, and Sherlock looked over at the shorter man, his lips tugging into a reluctant smile despite himself. John always had this effect on him. He was the only person who laughed at Sherlock's jokes, told him he was amazing, and actually liked him. John was in awe of Sherlock, but it was Sherlock who was really in awe of John. Why did he stay? Why was he here, walking down a dark alleyway on the way back to 221B, covered in blood from a gash on his head, laughing at the entire situation with Sherlock? Why wasn't he running away, putting as much distance between himself and the deranged sociopath at once? Sherlock chuckled as tears of mirth ran down John's face, inordinately happy and warm inside-

Their fingers brushed as John handed Sherlock his tea, always prepared just the way he liked it, and Sherlock's eyes rose to meet John's. John was already looking away, unaware that the contact had sent a fission of heat up Sherlock's arm, his mind firmly placed on some show on the telly-

Sherlock walked around and around the room, knowing he was missing a clue and determined not to leave until he found it. He could hear Donovan and Anderson talking a few yards away from him, their voices contemptuous and mocking, but he tuned them out. He was used to people laughing at him and refused to be hurt by their words. They were idiots anyway.

John was bristling with anger beside him, and for some reason this made Sherlock exceedingly happy. John was glaring at the pair who leaned against the wall and smirked at their own cleverness. John was staunchly on his side, loyal and outraged on his behalf that someone thought Sherlock was less than brilliant-

John smiled at him and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat-

John laughed and Sherlock found himself laughing along with him-

A cold rain beat steadily at the windows of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock lay on the sofa, his hands steepled underneath his chin, his eyes closed, miles and miles away inside his Mind Palace. He was bored. There had not been a case for at least two weeks but he had devised a way to keep his mind from tearing itself apart. When there were no experiments, no cases, no deductions to make, Sherlock went inside his Mind Palace and took out all his memories of John and examined them as a collector would his rare and exquisite pieces. It was soothing and, oddly enough, left him feeling very happy.

He was rudely jerked out of his Mind Palace when the front door banged open with some force. There were running footsteps up the stairs and then a breathless Detective Inspector Lestrade threw open the door, his eyes staring wildly around for Sherlock. When he finally found the bewildered detective, he drew in a deep breath.

"Sherlock, has Mycroft called you?" his voice shook with emotion and Sherlock frowned, eyes sweeping down his body, trying to deduce what had happened that would cause Lestrade to act in such a way. He had been at work all morning, then something had taken him by surprise, hence the coffee stains on his shirt, and he had stayed briefly at the hospital- visitor not patient. Someone was injured, then. Most likely someone he was close to, otherwise there would not be such a display of emotion.

"No, why?"

"You need to come to the hospital with me, right now. Don't argue just come."

"What's the case this time?"

"This has nothing to do with a case, Sherlock, come on!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed that he could not deduce who the person in the hospital was. Perhaps he was losing his touch. Then realization dawned.

"Mycroft is in the hospital. I have no wish to go see him and console him over whatever ailment he is afflicted with. Probably ate too much cake. I'm much too busy." He turned his head and closed his eyes, expecting Lestrade to leave.

"It's not Mycroft, Sherlock, it's Jo-." Lestrade quickly shut his mouth, still breathing heavily, and watched as Sherlock slowly sat up on the couch.

"It's _who_?" his voice was cold, cutting, totally devoid of emotion.

Lestrade inhaled deeply, his heart pounding, and his entire mind still screaming in disbelief over who he had seen in the hospital bed. He had meant to tell Sherlock gradually, on the way to the hospital in order to lessen the shock, not blurt it out like an idiot. His shoulders slumped.

"It's John, Sherlock. He's not dead, he's still alive and he's in the hospital right now. I don't know _how_ he's still alive or where the hell he's been for the past 6 months, but it's him."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he could not make sense of the words and Lestrade realized he had never, in the many years he had known him, seen Sherlock so surprised. He wildly thought he might actually witness Sherlock faint but, save for only a barely perceptible sway, Sherlock managed to stave off that indignity. He slowly blinked up at Lestrade then rose, walked sedately over to his coat and scarf, pulled them on along with his gloves, and motioned Lestrade, without a word, down the stairs.

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Please let me know what you think- even if you hate it! :) I still like hearing from you all about the story.


	7. Chapter 7

**THANKS to everyone who is following this story! It makes me so happy to know how much everyone is enjoying this. :) Please review and let me know. I get inspired reading reviews- even if you are giving me constructive criticism.  
**

**I'm sorry! I know I am drawing this out excruciatingly but after reading the comments I wanted to update and let you guys know what is happening with John. I have already written the next chapter but am so sleep deprived (I have a taste of how John felt I believe) I am not confidant of my proofread and edit. I promise to have the next chapter up by tomorrow night, though. **

**This has not been Brit-picked so any mistakes for the British hospital are my own as I am drawing from my experience of American hospitals.**

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Sherlock was used to these dreams. He had experienced them with regularity shortly after John had died but it had been a few weeks since he had dreamed of this: John returning from the dead. In some of his dreams, John walked back into the flat, grinning and with open arms. In others, Sherlock caught a glimpse of John in a crowded street or shop and he would run after him only for John to disappear or for John to morph into a stranger. In some of these dreams, John would turn to Sherlock with a frown, a faceless woman at his side, and ask why Sherlock was still looking for him- couldn't he see that John was happy now? Leave him alone.

Lestrade thought Sherlock was merely in shock and his suspicion was confirmed when, for once, Sherlock did not say a word in protest at riding in the police car. He even allowed Lestrade to use his lights and siren to cut through traffic quickly. Lestrade kept glancing over at him uneasily. Sherlock was completely still and silent. He had not asked any questions about Lestrade's pronouncement in the flat and had yet to utter a word. He was behaving very oddly and it was making Lestrade uncomfortable. He had expected joy, tears, laughter, perhaps anger, not…this. Not dull acceptance. If he had not seen with his own eyes Sherlock's complete breakdown after John's "death," Lestrade would have thought Sherlock did not care much for the man. But he had and now he was perplexed at Sherlock's reaction. He had proof that the man was not the cold sociopath that he presented to the world.

As they walked into the hospital, Sherlock's steps were unhurried and he refused to walk faster in order to keep up with Lestrade. He was silent in the elevator ride up to John's room, eyes focused on his feet. Lestrade was a bundle of nerves, dreading what he would hear when they arrived. The doctors had still been in the process of evaluating John's condition when Lestrade had first arrived and he had only seen a brief glimpse of John. Now, in the slow ride up in the elevator, Lestrade visualized John's broken and shrunken body again and hoped he was still alive. He whooshed out a nervous breath and saw Sherlock twitch beside him.

Walking down the hall to the nurse's station, Sherlock's hands were shoved in the pockets of his coat and his eyes roved over everything, taking in every detail around him. He thought that he had rarely been in a dream with such clarity and depth before. It almost seemed real but he knew it was not possible. He had seen John dead on the examination table with his own eyes. This was another horrible, heart-wrenching dream and he would awake shortly. He sighed in irritation, wishing his mind would not play these cruel games with him.

Lestrade walked up to the doctor in charge, Dr. Trent, who smiled at them invitingly.

"How is John Watson?" Lestrade asked, when it was obvious that Sherlock would say nothing. He felt as if the words were stuck in his throat. He both wanted to know and didn't at the same time.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Dr. Trent greeted him. She remembered the handsome police officer from earlier. He had hurried into the hospital then hurried straight back out, his face creased in worry, sadness, and shock.

Mycroft Holmes, rather an odd, intimidating man, had informed her in the strictest confidence that John Watson had been believed to be dead for 6 months and detailed the conditions he had been held in. It was bloody horrific. She could imagine the shock that finding out John Watson was alive had wrought on those closest to him. She looked with some concern at the tall, curly haired man standing beside Lestrade. He looked entirely too calm and indifferent. She made a mental note to check on him later.

"We're keeping him heavily sedated so he's sleeping right now. I won't lie to you- his injuries are extensive. Fractured ribs, broken nose, and his ankle had to be re-broken and set again. He was lucky it had only just started healing but it seems it was…subjected to repeated stress." The doctor frowned at the unpleasantness of this. "Prognosis on his regaining full use of that ankle is…yet to be seen. A few of his fingers were broken and have since re-healed. We're currently waiting on the specialist to take a look and decide what is to be done there. Mr. Watson's fighting a severe infection right now and it's not helped by the fact that he is severely dehydrated and malnourished." Lestrade watched as Sherlock absorbed all this in absolute silence, his face blank. "It was a miracle they found him when they did. Another 12 hours or so and it would have been too late. As it is, he'll be staying with us for at least a few weeks."

"That's…Christ. But he will be all right? Eventually?" Lestrade ran his hand through his hair.

"He's not in the clear yet, Detective Inspector, but we're doing the very best we can for him. Mr. Holmes has the best doctors and specialists working around the clock to guarantee Mr. Watson's full recovery."

Sherlock's eyes sharpened and narrowed at the mention of his brother.

Dr. Trent cleared her throat and shifted from one foot to the other. She had obviously come to the part of her news that she was uncomfortable with.

"I also have to tell you, Detective Inspector…We're still not certain about his mental state. He has been kept in semi-isolation for the past 6 months and subjected to obvious, repeated stress. His mind may be…altered. That is still something that will have to be tested and monitored when his health is more stable." She obviously was trying to soften the news and Lestrade felt sick to his stomach. He turned to look at Sherlock but he was back to calmly staring at the walls as if memorizing the wallpaper pattern.

"Is that a sure thing?" He tried to imagine John insane. He felt like crying and he scrubbed at his eyes, not wanting to cry in front of the doctor and a hallway full of people.

"Nothing is certain at this time, Detective Inspector." Dr. Trent smiled confidently, as if trying to infuse Lestrade with some hope for John. "He may be able, with therapy and time, to recover completely. Everything is very much wait and see at this point. Would you like to go back and see him? Mr. Holmes was very, ah, explicit in his instructions that both yourself and a Sherlock Holmes were to be admitted at any time. I presume this is Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade glanced once more at Sherlock who was still staring about him with total indifference and did not seem to be about to answer Dr. Trent.

"Yeah. That's him." He sighed and rotated his tense shoulders. "We're ready to go see him."


	8. Chapter 8

**Enjoy :)**

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Sherlock was now sure this was not a regular dream but a nightmare. His mind had never conjured up anything so horrific happening to John and he vaguely thought that was odd. His mind was full of horrible, gruesome facts and images but it seemed he had been sparing himself those scenarios in relation to John. Now, it seemed, his mind was making up for lost time.

He followed Lestrade down the hall and through the door of John's room. Inside, the lights were muted, dim, and there was the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, the whir of machines, but otherwise silence. Lestrade moved to the left and Sherlock was able to fully see the man lying on the bed.

He looked different from the John Watson Sherlock had in his mind but, despite obvious differences, it was him. His face was freshly shaven and it was obvious someone had cut his hair, shaving it until there was only stubble remaining. He was hooked to multiple machines and IV drips, other tubes ran from his nose. His face was bruised, lip split, nose broken, eyes black. He looked horribly pale and small lying on the hospital bed and Sherlock wondered exactly how much weight he had lost.

The hands that lay on top of the covers were red and some of the fingers were twisted grotesquely. Broken and healed incorrectly, the doctor had said, the words filtering back through Sherlock's shocked mind. Both wrists were heavily bandaged in white and Sherlock could see traces of red snaking from underneath the gauze. He had been kept shackled then, chained, with some merciless force.

Sherlock desperately wanted to wake up now. Nothing had ever hurt as badly as this sight in front of him did. John's absence, John's rejection of him in his dreams, nothing had hurt as much as the exact and precise knowledge of how John had received every single injury that Sherlock's deducing eyes could see. Knowing how much pain and agony John had suffered for 6 long months and Sherlock had not been able to help him, had not been able to save him…it was enough to destroy him.

Sherlock blinked slowly, expecting each time he opened his eyes that he would wake up, as he had done other times before…but he did not wake up. John remained on the bed, looking pale and lifeless, his heart monitor continuing to proclaim he was still alive while he looked like death itself. Sherlock shook his head. There was only one way to wake himself up.

He reached out, with shaking fingers, and smoothed at the creases of pain on John's forehead. When his fingers made contact with John's hot skin, Sherlock's lips parted and he took a surprised, shuddering breath. This was no dream. _John was alive_.

His violently trembling legs suddenly gave out beneath him and he collapsed into a chair beside the bed. He was crying without being aware of doing so, hot tears were streaming down his face and he was sobbing with great shuddering gasps, unable to get enough air into his lungs. John- oh, dear God- John!

He looked at John again, at the face he had never thought to see alive again, and tried to stop sobbing but it was impossible. All he could see was the damage done to John and for once Sherlock wished he was not so smart, was not so knowledgeable of injuries and violent death because he was very much aware of how much agony John had been in, how much pain he had in the future. Sherlock reached out to grasp John's hand but stopped short, afraid of hurting him further.

He felt a sudden rush of hot anger at the people who had reduced his brave, honorable army doctor to this- clinging to life, possibly insane, likely crippled, twisted, a wreck of his former self.

"Who did this?" he asked, turning to glare at Lestrade who actually backed up a pace at the venom in Sherlock's face and voice. The tears still fell but were unheeded as Sherlock's fists clenched in rage. He would make whoever had done this suffer, they would suffer longer than John had suffered, and then he would kill them agonizingly slow. They would beg for death before he was done with them, and he then he would keep them alive a little while longer to prolong their suffering.

No one hurt John and lived.

"I don't know. Mycroft only called me to let me know to come to the hospital, and once here to get in touch with you." Lestrade shook his head, massaging the back of his neck. Seeing John in such a way was heartbreaking but seeing Sherlock so distraught was also terrible. The man rarely showed such raw emotion and when he did it seemed like something private, something intimate that Lestrade felt he should look away from.

Sherlock turned back to John, his face still etched in pain and anger, but something softened in his expression and he ran his fingers along John's temple again, breathing deeply.

"I can't believe he's really alive." Lestrade said hoarsely and Sherlock nodded, for once in complete agreement with the Detective Inspector.

* * *

"Sherlock was amused with you for a time…but he always gets bored, doesn't he? Such a brilliant mind, did you really expect someone as ordinary as yourself to keep his attention for long?" Moriarty's voice was full of mockery, almost making John ashamed that he had thought those things about Sherlock. It wasn't true, it wasn't real- he kept repeating this to himself but Moriarty kept talking.

"It's actually amusing to know that you loved him." He smirked at John as if the pet had done something comical. "You, ordinary, flawed, stupid John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes and actually expected him to love you back."

"He never would. He never could. He never will. Isn't it obvious by now? He would have found you by now if he wanted to. He's left you to me."

John jerked awake, panic clawing at his chest, a scream working its way up his throat. It was dark in the room, too dark- he hadn't been rescued. It had been a dream, another hallucination. His entire body hurt and it seemed he could not get enough air into his lungs. There was a curious frantic beeping noise that John was trying to locate the source of when suddenly a light clicked on to his left. He painfully jerked his head in that direction to see Sherlock sitting beside his bed.

_Sherlock_.

Warm relief spread through John's aching chest and he smiled. Sherlock looked alert though his eyes looked very swollen and red. His face was a careful blankness that John had seen on multiple occasions when Sherlock did not want anyone to know what he was feeling.

"Do you need the nurse?" Sherlock asked, his deep voice rumbling through John's chest. It was the best feeling John had ever felt. Sherlock reached for the call button.

"He lied." John's voice was cracked and hoarse but it was important to tell Sherlock this. "He lied, I know he lied."

"Who, John? Who lied?"

"_He_ did, Sherlock." John said emphatically. "I didn't think you were bored with me. You were looking for me, I know it. I know you were."

"I would do anything to protect you, John." Sherlock's confession was barely a breath of sound but John smiled when he heard it.

"You're not real." John whispered, his heart breaking all over again. "This is all a hallucination. I'll wake up for real in a minute."

Sherlock paused and looked at him. "I'm real, John. You're safe now. I won't leave your side."

"I don't believe you." John said, sadly, shaking his head slowly.

Sherlock stood up and leaned over John's bed, staring into John's tired, bleary eyes.

"_I. Am. Real_. John-"

John reached up and curled his hands, festooned with multiple tapes, splints, and IVs, through Sherlock's curls and, ignoring the pains and twinges, weakly tugged the taller man's face down to his, pressing his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock was frozen in shock, unable to respond, his eyes wide in disbelief. John moved his lips over Sherlock's feverishly, his grip weak and shaky at the back of Sherlock's head but Sherlock did nothing to break away, relishing the contact with John.

"I've dreamed about doing that since I met you," John whispered sluggishly, his lips still brushing Sherlock's and Sherlock shivered from the contact, his stomach clenching deliciously.

John's hands fell from Sherlock's curls and hit the mattress as he sank blissfully back into unconsciousness.

The nurse came bustling in and stopped short when the saw the tall, brooding young man leaning over her patient.

"Is everything all right?"

The man shook his head and stepped away, taking his seat by Mr. Watson's bedside, looking a bit dazed and confused.

"Was he awake? Did he say anything?"

He nodded, not meeting her eyes, and she thought he looked rather sad. It was normal for the loved ones to become upset at the ravings of their family member when they were under the influence of drugs or dehydrated. She tutted sympathetically.

"I wouldn't think much of what he said, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson is very delirious right now both from his infection and dehydration. He'll be like that for another day or so until his levels get to where they need to be. If he says anything, well, wrong or out of character it will be from that, nothing you've said or done." She smiled, hoping she had helped Mr. Holmes feel better. She decided not to mention the fact that the man in the bed might be insane.

After she had administered a new drip for John's IV and checked his vitals again, she left, leaving Sherlock sitting by John's bed. He frowned and cautiously held John's damaged hand in his, content to stare at his friend all night, a luxury he had been denied for six long months.


	9. Chapter 9

**Angst returning warning! Seriously, I just cannot seem to stop writing angst. This is a sort of bridging chapter. Next chapter, more will be said on John's physical and mental state and how he is coping after his torture, etc. I will remind readers that he did spend 6 months with Moriarty being tortured and told Sherlock didn't want him. That's bound to cause some hurt.**

**Wow! I have 99 followers for this story! One away from 100! I am so flattered! I hope everyone likes this fic!**

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When John woke next it was to blazing sunshine bathing him in warmth. He sighed happily, content to lay still and listen to the beeps and whirs of the machines connected to him. If this was a dream, it was a very peaceful and nice one and he was not about to open his eyes and break the illusion. He hummed happily in his chest, lips quirking up in a tentative smile.

"John."

He frowned, wanting to respond to the familiar, deep voice but not wanting to open his eyes to darkness and pain.

"_John_."

"You're always so impatient, Sherlock." John said in affectionate irritation, huffing out a short breath, smiling wider. "Mm…let me enjoy this for a minute. Keep talking though."

"What about?" When John did not respond but hummed a bit in his chest, Sherlock frowned. "Mrs. Hudson is coming to see you today. I would advise you to say nothing of the large bruise on her forehead. She reacted rather badly to the news that you were in the hospital and Lestrade was not quick enough to catch her."

"Mm…poor Mrs. Hudson. I miss her cooking." John said dreamily, imagining all the wonderful dishes she had made and he had failed to eat because they had been sitting too close to one of Sherlock's experiments. He vowed he would eat every bite if he ever got the opportunity. Of Mrs. Hudson's food, not Sherlock's experiments.

Sherlock fidgeted in his chair. John wanted him to keep talking but everything he wanted to say couldn't be said right now. Could it? It seemed an inappropriate venue for such declarations. He frowned, confused.

"Keep talking." John said, his voice taking on a bit of urgency, though his eyes remained closed.

"I'll keep talking if you open your eyes." Sherlock said, deciding that was a requirement to his declarations.

John sighed sadly. "You'll be gone when I open my eyes, Sherlock. You are always gone when I open my eyes."

"John, I promise to still be here when you open your eyes." Sherlock let just a little impatience leak into his voice and saw John's lips curve upwards in a smile.

John breathed deeply and prepared himself for the onslaught of pain and darkness.

He finally opened his eyes and blinked at the blinding sunshine. Elation swelled in his chest and he turned to finally meet Sherlock's eyes.

"_Sherlock_." He murmured, his eyes hungrily taking in every feature of his familiar and lovely face.

Sherlock's relief that John recognized him was so obvious that even John, in his partially drugged and weary state, couldn't fail to miss it, though he was confused why Sherlock would look so relieved.

"What is it?"

Sherlock shook his head and continued to stare at John, searchingly, as if he could deduce John's very thoughts. John, for his part, was content to merely stare back at Sherlock, confidant that now he was not hallucinating, this was real. He was in the hospital, he had been rescued, and he was going to live. There were many, many things he wanted to tell Sherlock but now seemed not the best time, so John kept his mouth shut and stared, losing himself in Sherlock's bright eyes.

They were snapped out of their reverie by the door opening. Sherlock sat back in his chair and turned to see Lestrade leading a bruised and shocked Mrs. Hudson. Upon seeing John, Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand to her mouth and began softly crying, making every man in the room uncomfortable but especially John, who squirmed on the bed and felt hopelessly weak.

"Oh, John, dear! We've all missed you so much- it's such a miracle!" She gingerly hugged him and John awkwardly patted her on the back before shooting Sherlock a look that was easy to interpret. Sherlock, surprisingly gentle, pried Mrs. Hudson away from John and awkwardly led her away from the bed, patting her shoulder cautiously.

"How long have I been here?" John asked, struggling to sit up in the bed, not wanting to carry on conversations lying down, wincing at the soreness of his ribs and the protests his fingers made as he put pressure on them. Lestrade quickly moved to help, trying not to notice how John briefly flinched away from the physical contact.

"Eight days, counting today. You've been in and out of consciousness for the past week. Do you remember anything?" he asked and John noted the tired lines around his eyes. It looked as if the Detective Inspector had not slept in those eight days. Looking across at Sherlock, John wondered if he had either. It was always a bit hard to tell with Sherlock, considering the man usually went on such little sleep.

When John shook his head, Lestrade nodded.

"Doctor Trent said you wouldn't. You were mostly delirious anyway. You were barking out orders like you were still in Afghanistan most of the time," Lestrade said, smiling but his voice was rather guarded. "I didn't know such a short guy could have such a loud voice. Most of the time you didn't know where you were and kept calling for Sherlock, thinking the two of you were on a case together."

John sighed, frowning, and rubbed a hand across his face. When he noticed his misshapen fingers, though, he quickly brought the hand down and tried to nonchalantly hide it among his blankets. When he looked back up, it was to collide with Sherlock's all-knowing gaze and John felt himself flushing.

"How…"he cleared his throat, uncomfortably. "How long was I…was I gone?"

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock. "You were missing for six months-"

The information hit John in the chest. He felt the tightness but refused to give in. Six months? He had been missing for _six months_? Why hadn't Sherlock found him in that time?

He took a shuddering breath, trying to control his rising panic.

"How…why did no one find me?"

"We thought you were dead." Sherlock said quietly.

"You just…you just gave up?" John could feel sadness and panic clawing at his chest and lungs. The room was spinning and he was gasping for air. He could hear the heart monitor picking up speed but he could not calm down. He saw Lestrade glance worriedly at Sherlock whose eyes were wide, his expression blank, as John panicked.

_Moriarty had been right_. Perhaps Sherlock had made a token effort to find his blogger and flat-mate but, when that turned up nothing, he had given up. John remembered missing persons cases at Scotland Yard- those people were usually dead and now he knew there was a file there for him- labeled "John H. Watson" and he had been declared dead. The Sherlock John had thought he knew would never have given up. He would have kept pursuing leads, finding new leads when those turned up empty, he would have found John.

"John." Sherlock's steady voice penetrated John's panicked induced haze and he looked up with wide, hurt eyes.

"You just gave up. You didn't want to find me. He was right, oh, god, _he was right_." John could hear his voice warbling but could not stop it. The feeling only contributed to his terror. He could not even control his own body.

"_Who_ was right?" Sherlock stepped closer to the bed and gently put his hand on John's cheek. John was instantly assaulted by memories- pain, touches that only caused agony, Moriarty's lilting, calm, reasonable voice.

John jerked away from Sherlock with a cry. "Don't touch me!"

"John, you need to calm down," Lestrade said, his voice even and gentle. He made no move to touch John, for which he was grateful, but stood by his bed and stared straight at him.

John gripped the sides of his head and closed his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He knew he was having a panic attack, knew he was worrying Sherlock, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, but he couldn't control it. NO. He could control it. Oh, god, no he couldn't.

He felt as if the proverbial rug had been pulled from under him. All those months- _six months_!- he had been waiting on Sherlock, trusting that the genius detective would find him, would rescue him from the misery and torture. And the whole time, Sherlock had been…what? Thinking he was dead? Moving on and solving cases and laughing and experimenting and….and being happy? Without John? While John had suffered in that room, Sherlock had been blithely going about his life. Moriarty had been right. He hadn't wanted him, he had never wanted John. None of it had mattered. Had Sherlock been happy that John was gone and no longer bothering him?

"I think I'm going to be sick." John whispered frantically and Lestrade was there with a basin, once again careful not to touch John. There was nothing in his stomach but his retches were painful and left him shaking afterwards.

Sherlock watched this with a perfect mask of indifference but inwardly he was screaming. Who was John talking about? Why was he reacting in this way? What had this person told him? He knew the signs of a panic attack but had never seen John lose his cool in such a way.

"John, look at me." Sherlock commanded, his voice deep and even.

John, his breathing stuttering and shaking, looked up and Sherlock held his gaze.

"We thought you were dead because we saw your body. I know now it was not actually you but a fake, but…it was very convincing. It convinced me that you were dead. I did not simply give up. If I had even heard a whisper that you were alive, I would have done everything in my power to find you. You know that. You have to believe that. Whoever told you these…these lies, that's all they were: _lies_. I would never have stopped searching for you."

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, then allowed it to whoosh out. He repeated this again and again until finally he felt calm and opened his eyes. He was surprised to see Sherlock so close to him, their faces inches apart, and he blinked, suddenly feeling very ashamed of how he had acted.

"Don't feel embarrassed, John." Sherlock said, slowly moving his hand so John could see it and know he was about to be touched. The touch was gentle, a slight caress against John's cheek then gone, but John could feel it burning where he had been touched.


	10. Chapter 10

**It took me quite a while to get this chapter exactly the way I wanted it, so I thank everyone for their patience. Many, many thanks go to the people who have favorited, followed, and reviewed my story! **

**Please, please, please review! Even if you hate it, let me know :)**

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"It was a very convincing body. But then, Moriarty was always nothing if not thorough."

Sherlock regarded his brother with cool, calculating eyes. Mycroft knew more than he was telling Sherlock. There was always something that gave Mycroft away when he was hiding information from Sherlock but he could never decide what it was. Mycroft always seemed so calm, distant, inaccessible…his face betrayed nothing and he had no twitches to speak of. Still, Sherlock could tell when Mycroft did not want him to know something, was deliberately distracting him. Now was one of those times but Sherlock knew he needed more time to deduce what Mycroft was hiding.

When John had finally told him it had been Moriarty holding him, Sherlock had not been surprised and he reprimanded himself for not realizing it sooner. Who else could have faked such a convincing body, kept John hidden for so long, and subjected him to such torture? Moriarty. It made perfect sense and, after the Pool Incident, it was only logical that the demented man would have wanted to strike out at Sherlock. What better way to do that than through John? The thought of Moriarty imprisoning and torturing John for 6 months made a sick feeling lodge in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. He still vividly remembered seeing John walking towards him, covered in explosives. It was an image, and a feeling, that Sherlock did not think he would ever forget. This was much, much worse.

"And you truly believe Moriarty is dead?" Sherlock was incredulous. "It is not possible, if you did the tests you said, that you could have failed to realize the fake body was not John's. It is very possible that Moriarty managed to fake his own death as well."

"I do not believe that to be the case in this instance. And, as I have told you, I am looking into the matter of the fake body, brother." Mycroft replied coolly with a small smile that made Sherlock want to grit his teeth. "Something occurred that should not have and I am personally investigating the incident. Never fear."

Mycroft, in his expensive, designer suit, looked very out of place in the shabby visitor's lounge of the hospital, but Sherlock knew he did as well. He had barely left the hospital in the past 2 ½ weeks since John had been admitted. Doctor Trent was refusing to discharge John until he gained 10 pounds and was able to walk about on his crutches. Thus far, John was clacking up and down the hall rather well on his crutch, but his appetite was off and Sherlock, in a total reversal of roles, found himself gently coaxing, and by turns angrily pouting, in order to get John to eat. He always knew he was on the right track when John began smiling at his food.

While he was predominantly occupied making certain John got better as quickly as possible and pestering the doctors and nurses to make sure John got the best care possible, Sherlock's mind was never at rest. He was still trying to discover how Moriarty had fooled both he and Mycroft so completely for 6 months. Thus far, he had not made much progress and it was exasperating.

"Why didn't he tell me? Make me search for John? Even if the search had been designed to torment me, make me try and find him when he was not there…why did Moriarty never tell me?" Sherlock was talking more to himself, trying to solve the puzzle, than Mycroft, but his brother answered as though he were being asked. Annoying.

"I don't believe that was the game he was playing, Sherlock. It seems that he only wanted your Doctor Watson for his own amusement."

The way Mycroft said the last three words made Sherlock want to gag. John's screams when he had been delirious that first week had been harrowing. Lestrade had left the room, unable to stay and witness it, but Sherlock had stayed. He had stayed, listened, thought, and felt and it had been terrible. Each of John's screams were like knives driving into his chest but he knew that if John had been able to withstand such brutality that would make him rave in such a way for 6 months, Sherlock could stand to listen to him relive it. It was the least he could do for John after allowing him to be subjected to vicious cruelty for such a long time.

"How do you know this?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and something clicked in his mind but he lost it as soon as he turned to investigate further.

Mycroft's face was pleasant, smiling, giving nothing away. "I have my sources."

"Are these the same sources that discovered John was still alive, where he was being held, and daringly rescued him?" Mycroft's recount of John's rescue was another thing that did not make sense to Sherlock. It was another piece of the maddening puzzle that he could not work out. He knew he did not have much time to think lately because of his attentions to John, which he refused to stop, but he felt finding out what Mycroft was hiding was important. He knew he was not getting the true account of John's rescue and John was unable to tell him anything of it. It was exasperating.

"Tell me, how is Doctor Watson today?"

Sherlock glared at him and refused to answer. They both knew how John was. Mycroft, with his team of doctors, probably knew before Sherlock did what was diagnosed and decided. The doctors had re-broken four of John's fingers last week in attempts to splint them and help the bones regrow into a better shape. They had discussed John's options on this front. If they did not re-break the bones it was possible John could eventually lose the ability to use those fingers. His left hand was worse than his right, sporting three of the misshapen fingers. They had assured him that, with physical therapy, he could regain the full use of his fingers, though not the full strength he had before.

They had also re-broken his right ankle, aligning it as properly as possible and casting it. The diagnosis on this front was not entirely promising. In the best case scenario, John would walk with a limp and a cane. John had been very quiet during that conversation and Sherlock knew both he and John were thinking that running across London and jumping rooftops was not likely to cure _this_ limp. John had been very quiet the rest of the day and that night, had a nightmare that left him screaming. Sherlock, at his bedside actually sleeping for once, had jerked awake only to be rebuffed by John who refused to discuss it, insisting he was fine.

The worst part was John's mental diagnosis. The doctors had evaluated his mental health and diagnosed him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…again. Sherlock had scoffed at the first diagnosis of PTSD when John had returned from Afghanistan but could not so easily dismiss this one. All the symptoms were present. John had trouble sleeping, suffered from headaches and flashbacks, had panic attacks, was easily startled, and tended to dislike being touched. It was obvious that physical contact made him uncomfortable and Sherlock knew this was in part due to his embarrassment of his current physical limitations. An active man like John Watson would not want to be confined to a bed for most of the day and then, once up, be restricted with a broken ankle and a body that was too weakened to walk very far.

The most frustrating aspect for Sherlock was that he did not know what to say to make John feel better. Emotions and sentiment had never been his area and now he felt as if he were drowning in them and was unable to save himself or John. It seemed the best he could do was stay by John's side, every day and through the night, help him as he could, and assure John whenever he asked, which was repeatedly, that he was in no way bored. Surprisingly, he wasn't. Sherlock found himself staring at John for hours while he slept- content to gaze at his resilient doctor and allow himself to feel profound relief that John was no longer "dead."

Lestrade had brought Sherlock large boxes containing cold case files, knowing Sherlock was refusing to leave John's side. Lestrade assumed Sherlock would be climbing the walls by the end of the second day, but Sherlock wasn't. He had looked over a few of the cases and talked out a few with John- his brilliant conductor of light. Sherlock had been in the middle of a convoluted deduction when he had paused, looked up and met John's smiling eyes…and had his breath taken away. _How he had missed this_. The moment had seemed to stretch out and he was aware of thousands of memories flashing in his mind, and Sherlock had been surprised to find himself smiling at John, then laughing, while John looked bemused. Sherlock had cleared his throat, broken the eye contact, and continued with his deductions but the moment had stayed with him.

"He will get better, Sherlock. He just needs time." Mycroft's voice was soft, not supercilious as usual and Sherlock looked up. It was a voice he had rarely heard since childhood. It was Mycroft's comforting voice, a voice that had, years ago, allowed Sherlock to have a little hope in any situation. Experience had taught Sherlock to distrust any sentiment or emotion from Mycroft.

"I…hate this happened to John." Mycroft said haltingly, gazing intently at his umbrella, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "In my experience, in a world full of corruption, John is a good man…"

"Spare me your phony sentiments, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped.

"I am not completely heartless, Sherlock. What Doctor Watson endured was truly atrocious and he is to be sympathized with."

"All lives end, all hearts are broken, caring is not an advantage. I believe I learned that from you, Mycroft."

Mycroft smirked, his eyes cold. "It seems it was not a lesson you learned well if your love of Doctor Watson is to be observed. I am surprised at your level of selflessness in all this. Truly, I would have expected you to be gone long before Doctor Watson was discharged. When he is released from the hospital…what then? Will you play nursemaid all day or will you once again immerse yourself in The Work? I do not believe Doctor Watson will be able to assist you for a while, if ever again."

While Sherlock glared venomously, Mycroft stood, straightened his suit, and tapped his umbrella on the floor. "He may never be the same man he was before Moriarty, Sherlock. What then? Will you abandon him? It is what many others…less _noble_ than you would do. If that is the case, let me know. I will make…certain arrangements to ease the good doctor's way. I would not want him completely destitute."

"John will be fine." Sherlock said harshly, though he knew Mycroft was aware he had struck a nerve.

"No one is certain of that, Sherlock." Mycroft smirked before turning away. "Even John doubts his own sanity."

"Then I will be sane for the both of us."

* * *

On that foolhardy sentimental note, Mycroft walked away, nonchalant while inwardly he was melancholy. It would have been heartbreaking, if he still had a heart, the way Sherlock was trying to take care of the poor doctor. Sherlock knew his toy was damaged but was trying, in a normal child-like way, to proclaim that it did not matter, his toy was still special, still the best, still the same. Mycroft was sure, once reality set in and Sherlock got over the shock and joy of John being alive, that he would not be able to handle the new John. Sherlock was a selfish creature and caring deeply for people other than himself was not his strength.

Mycroft knew it was partially his fault that John was currently in the state he was in, and he was prepared, once Sherlock abandoned the doctor, to help ease John's way. A nice place to live, a modest income, a job if he wanted it. It was the least he could do, he knew, but something inside him nagged him to do it. John Watson was a very good man, and he had been his little brother's friend, his only friend. It was for that alone that Mycroft wanted to help him. For some reason, the idea still left him feeling melancholy as he left the hospital.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks everyone for supporting this fic! Please review- reviews inspire me, truly, and I like getting feedback. Much love :)**

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The cab stopped outside 221B Baker Street and Sherlock immediately jumped out, leaving John to clamber out on his own. To a casual observer, it seemed rather uncaring and cruel to allow the shorter man to climb out of the cab himself. He sported splints on at least 4 of his fingers, had a cast on his ankle and a crutch, and in general seemed rather tired and weary.

Sherlock, his hands shoved in his pockets and staring up at 221B, did not offer to help and if he had, John would have felt like punching him. After 3 weeks in the hospital, being fussed over and hating every damn minute of it, John was ready to gain some independence. He had not had to tell Sherlock this, he had deduced it, and was acting accordingly. Sherlock knew that if John needed assistance, he would ask. End of subject. So while John struggled out of the cab, Sherlock paid and went back to worrying about John's homecoming.

He had not had time to prepare the flat and was very much aware that John's old bedroom was now a fully functioning lab. None of John's possessions were in the flat unless his sister had decided to bring them over and, according to Mrs. Hudson, she had not. No doubt she had pawned what she could and drank away the money, Sherlock thought. Well, it was no matter, he decided dismissively. John could buy new clothes and Sherlock would be gracious enough to lend him his laptop. What else would be wanting?

Mrs. Hudson had agreed to clean the flat and, after Sherlock promised he would not experiment in the flat for two months, cleaned the kitchen. She had agreed to throw out his more disgusting experiments and stock the fridge and cabinets with John's favorite foods. Sherlock would have done these things himself but he did not want to leave John and asking Mycroft was out of the question. Half-formed suspicions floated around in his mind concerning his brother, making him reluctant to ask for a favor, even for John. Mycroft had offered to bring John back to 221B in his car, but Sherlock had insisted on the cab.

John finally managed to right himself outside the cab and gingerly hobbled up to the front door, supporting himself on a single crutch and limping slightly on his broken ankle. The doctors had informed him this was fine as long as he did not walk excessively. John depressingly did not see any of that in his immediate future.

Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door and gave John a big hug that he tolerated with a painful smile, though Sherlock saw the tension around his eyes and the stiffness of his body that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the self-control exerted to not flinch away. Physical contact with John was dodgy at the best of times and if he was subjected to anything quick without seeing it coming…he reacted rather badly.

"I made a supper with all your favorites, dear." Mrs. Hudson's eyes were misty as she gazed at John, patting his arm as she stepped away.

"I dreamed about your cooking, Mrs. Hudson." John moaned in ecstasy, making Mrs. Hudson laugh. She flapped a hand at him then turned away, leading the way into her flat which was emitting smells so enticing that John's mouth began to water.

He turned to see if Sherlock would eat- he had eaten very little during their stay in the hospital- but Sherlock was already gone and John could hear his bounding footsteps going up the stairs.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called and John, jumping in surprise, his heart sinking, followed her into the flat.

* * *

Sherlock spun slowly in the center of the room, checking that everything was in place and as it should be. John needed extra room to maneuver about now and he was pleased that Mrs. Hudson, or a hired worker, had moved all the furniture accordingly. An extra armchair had been found and Sherlock, wrinkling his nose at the pattern on it, could already picture John seated there, across from Sherlock as he should be, looking at him in awe and telling him he was brilliant. He gave the armchair a small smile.

The kitchen was in the best shape it had been in 7 months. Sherlock glared into the fridge which was completely devoid of any experiments. This, he thought, negated their bargain of no experiments for two months. One of those cultures had been at a critical stage. Sherlock closed the fridge and was already in the middle of devising a truly horrid experiment to test the limits of Mrs. Hudson's patience when he stopped. Loud noises were probably not conducive to John's rest and recuperation. Huffing, he stored the plan to be brought out at a more opportune time.

He debated going back downstairs but he was not hungry and he knew the only reason he wanted to go back down was to watch John eat. Sherlock had developed a habit of staring at John and he was very much aware of it. Whenever he looked at John, his heart beat faster and his stomach developed a horrible fluttery feeling. His palms broke into a disgusting sweat and all he wanted to do was reach out and touch John. He could not forget that delirious kiss John had administered while in the hospital and Sherlock's mind occasionally had a field day while he was watching John- imaging that John had not been delirious and Sherlock had responded and- _stop_. Sherlock knew this was _very_ illogical and horribly sentimental and so he was doing his utmost to quell this need.

Deciding the best course of action would be to check his e-mail and see if he could find a case for he and John to work, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and settled into his armchair, shooting a furtive glance at the one opposite as if he could not wait until it occupied a John Watson.

* * *

"I still can't believe you're actually alive." Mrs. Hudson said, looking fondly at John as he tucked into mashed potatoes and roast. "It was the biggest shock of my life when Greg told me you were alive and in the hospital." She laughed weakly and fingered her forehead where she had sported a spectacularly colored bruise.

"I'm still adjusting to the fact that everyone thought I was dead for 6 months," John said quietly. It had shocked him when he found out and it still left him feeling unsettled. He had spent so long believing that Sherlock was looking for him, believing he would find him…the idea that no one had been searching, had been moving on after grieving for him while he was still alive and enduring…John shook his head and tried to quell the rising panic in his chest. It was a lot to take in and, try as he might, he was still having trouble adjusting mentally.

"He took it pretty hard."

John speared a piece of roast and moved it aimlessly around his plate. "He seems fine to me."

"He wasn't. I couldn't get him to eat, he barely slept. All he would do for the first few months were play that violin day and night and perform ghastly experiments in my kitchen." Mrs. Hudson watched as John slowly ate. "I was afraid he would kill himself one night what with all the explosions and bangs going on up there. We were all so worried about him. Greg even conducted another drugs bust to make sure he wasn't using."

John shot her a concerned look. "Did he-?"

"Oh, no, dear, but we all thought he might." She shook her head. "I've never seen a man look so broken before. Sherlock always says he doesn't care but really…he does." she smiled fondly, thinking of her lost boy, and John frowned at his plate. "He cares for you, John. Don't let anyone tell you differently." Mrs. Hudson could not forget what John had said the first time she had seen him, panicking, convinced of a lie. It hurt her heart to think that John could be so persuaded to think Sherlock didn't want him.

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat and thought about what she had said. It was true that Sherlock had refused to leave his side at the hospital and there had been many times John had woken in the middle of the night and found Sherlock staring at him. It had been…oddly soothing, knowing Sherlock was there and knowing he would not let anything happen to John. John knew Sherlock had a frankly messed up way of caring for people- he snorted remembering the fate of the man who had dared hurt Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps this was his way of letting John know that he cared- constant presence.

Maybe if he were not so fucked up right now he would realize that Sherlock did care for him and was glad he was back. At the moment, John did not feel that way and he felt as if he were desperately trying to convince himself that Sherlock was happy he was back. He felt as if Sherlock- and everyone else- were waiting on him to leave, take his broken and damaged body elsewhere, so they could continue on with their lives in the way they had gotten accustomed to before he came back. Everyone was just too polite and felt too badly for him to say it.

Mrs. Hudson's sigh broke into his thoughts and he glanced up to see her smiling, looking happily at him, and John felt bad for thinking she may want him gone.

"I'm so glad you're back, John." She slid her hand across the table and John took it without hesitation, able to prepare himself for the physical contact in advance.

"Do you want to…talk about what happened?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a hushed voice, squeezing his hand, and suddenly it was too much pressure. John took his hand back, not forcefully, but with enough effort that Mrs. Hudson did not try to hang on. Her eyes widened and John felt like a shit. He smiled apologetically.

"I'm…um…going to be seeing a therapist again so…I'll be talking to them about- about what happened," John cleared his throat and looked about the room, unable to make eye contact with Mrs. Hudson. "Is my room still available?"

John saw from the corner of his eye Mrs. Hudson put her hand over her mouth, her eyes surprised.

"John…didn't Sherlock tell you?"

He looked around at her, his stomach bottoming out as he realized this would not be good news. "Tell me what?"


	12. Chapter 12

**I am just blown away by the response this little fic has gotten. Thanks so much to everyone! Read and then, you know the drill, review! :) Thanks, thanks, thanks!**

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"You turned my room into a lab."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop at John, standing in the doorway, having just limped up the stairs at a snail's pace. Sherlock had heard John mount the stairs awkwardly but had not risen to help, knowing John would not like his assistance. He found, as he listened to John struggle and curse, that he did not like John walking with a cast and crutch. Before, Sherlock could listen to the sound of John's footfalls and deduce if the man was in a bad mood, happy, sad, angry, hungry, anxious, or any other range of emotion. Now, he could not tell what mood John was in besides irritated and that was just from listening to the steady stream of curses as he clumsily navigated the stairs.

"I did not know you were still alive, John. It was only logical." Sherlock said, impatience creeping into his voice. He was tired of everyone making him feel badly for getting rid of John's things. "I did not think you were returning from the grave and I did not... I needed the space. I gave everything to your sister."

John stood and stared at him for a few seconds before looking away, taking in the rest of the flat and noticing how…"Sherlock" it seemed. Nothing of his remained in the flat and even the armchair opposite Sherlock's was not the one that had originally sat there 7 months ago. It had been replaced. His bedroom upstairs was now a lab. He sighed. Sherlock had thought he was _dead_. It did not matter that he hadn't been- everyone had believed he was dead. They had been fooled, it was not their fault. The proof they had moved on, though, still hurt and felt like a betrayal.

"Well, I guess I'll just…"John stared vaguely about the flat, his brow furrowed. "I'll just…stay at my sister's." His voice sounded hollow and confused.

"If that's what you want." Sherlock said slowly, frowning. Why would John want to stay at his sister's? He had thought John was excited at the prospect of being back at Baker Street. He had even said as much. What had changed that? Was it the stairs? Had John actually wanted Sherlock to assist him with the stairs? That was not possible as John had glared at him earlier in the day when he tried to help him off the elevator at the hospital. John should know that, once the cast was gone, he would be able to navigate the stairs easier- they would not always be a problem. Why would he want to leave?

John stared as Sherlock made this pronouncement in such a cold, distant voice. He felt rather surprised that Sherlock did not want him in the flat anymore, but it confirmed everything he had been thinking. There was no place for him here. Sherlock had obviously gone to great lengths to rid the flat of everything John-related. How much more would he want to be rid of John himself now that he was such a dependent? The fact that it took him almost 5 minutes to navigate the stairs on his own proved that he was a changed man. Sherlock would not want someone slowing him down when he went on cases- if John were even invited to go on these cases. It would appear the answer to that would be no.

"Right." John said, staring once more about him. "Right." He pivoted around and began moving to the top of the stairs, leaving Sherlock's mind whirring at top speed behind him.

_Why was John leaving_? What had changed his mind at being in the flat? John had no great love for his sister; he would hate living with her. He had wanted Sherlock in the hospital- _His bedroom_. John did not think he had a place to sleep. Irrational as there was another bedroom _and_ a couch. Plenty of room for both of them.

"John!" Sherlock leapt forward to stand between John and the stairs. John looked up at him, his face guarded and closed off, and Sherlock opened his mouth to reveal his brilliant deduction- John could have Sherlock's bed and Sherlock would sleep on the couch- when he breathed deeply and was assaulted by the delicious and unique smell of John Hamish Watson. Soap, tea, shaving cream, _John_. It was more potent in the small hallway, stronger than the faint wisps the jumpers had retained after so many months, and Sherlock could feel his heart thundering in his chest and his knees shaking from the reaction.

He tried to clear his throat, surprised at the lump that had formed there without his being aware of it. Tears pricked his eyes and he drew in another shaking breath, trying to steady his nerves but only increasing the pulse beating wildly at his neck and the jittery feeling in his abdomen.

"Sherlock?" John stared up at him, confused, his face beginning to show traces of concern.

Avoiding John's eyes, Sherlock tentatively reached out his hand and brushed his fingertips along John's good hand. John automatically turned his hand palm up but Sherlock lightly grasped his wrist and gently pulled the shorter man to him, burrowing his nose in John's hair, inhaling deeply. Sherlock's arms remained by his sides, not attempting to hold John, only one hand delicately holding onto John's wrist to keep the smaller man anchored to him. John stood, frozen to the spot, unable to work out exactly what Sherlock was doing. It was only when something wet hit his cheek that John realized Sherlock was crying, his body shaking in barely controlled sobs. Shifting his weight to his good leg, John dropped his crutch and curved his arms around Sherlock's trembling body.

The shaking intensified.

"I missed you so much." The voice did not even sound like Sherlock's, so choked, full of sadness and tears.

John was torn between suspicion and gratification that Sherlock had truly missed him. It was so rare to see true emotion from Sherlock…except…John had seen Sherlock cry on cue before in order to get information from people. It was possible that was what he was doing now- shamming his sadness in order to what-? Get John to stay? If he wanted John to stay, though, why had be gotten rid of all his things and turned his room into a lab? It didn't make sense.

"Why did you get rid of my things?" John's voice was low and sad, his forehead resting against Sherlock's collarbone. He resisted the urge to rub against him.

Sherlock shook his head, his nose snuffling through John's hair, still inhaling, and John realized that he would not get an answer for that action tonight. Perhaps never, but it was one of the many Sherlock-y things Sherlock did. John tried to tell that to the part of his brain that pointed to the removal of his things as proof Sherlock did not want him. He was trying to silence that calm, hateful voice in his mind when Sherlock spoke again.

"Stay. _Please_, stay, John. You can sleep in my room." Sherlock breathed, as if afraid to speak too loudly. John shivered as Sherlock's words ghosted along his skin.

"Where will you sleep?"

"You know I don't sleep much and if I do I can easily sleep on the sofa. Please _stay_." I want you here._ I want you here_. Sherlock could not tell him that but it was there, lingering in the air and surely John could deduce that.

"I probably couldn't get down the stairs again anyway and you're such a selfish bastard if you wanted me to stay you wouldn't help me down them," John mumbled and felt Sherlock's laugh rumble in his chest.

"Excellent deduction, John."

* * *

Hours later, John slid between sheets that smelled deliciously like Sherlock and stared up at the ceiling. A real bed, a comfortable bed, clean and relaxing- it was pure bliss. The light from the hallway filtered into the room and John sighed in exasperation. Afraid of the dark. An ex-army doctor who had killed people was now afraid of the dark. It was degrading and humiliating.

He could hear Sherlock still pacing about the flat, the sound of things moving, and he smiled. Sherlock was frustrated there were no cases currently requiring his brilliant mind. After their moment in the hallway and once John had sat in the new armchair- Sherlock had been oddly keen that he only sit there and not the sofa-Sherlock had gone back to checking his e-mails and finally slammed the lid shut, fuming.

"Nothing! It's been over _5 weeks_, John, and not a single case! Criminals are getting completely useless in this city!"

John smiled, and eased his ankle onto the new footstool in the flat. He would have to remember to thank Mrs. Hudson. "That's good news for the citizens."

Sherlock made a derisive noise and rolled his eyes, slouching down into his chair and turning his sharp eyes onto John. This was not to John's liking but he fought the urge to shift about uncomfortably. That would only make Sherlock's deductions that much easier.

"Have you called Lestrade? Maybe something new has come up? Or he could give you more of those cold case files like he did in the hospital." John suggested, attempting to divert Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise but took out his phone and began texting rapidly. This reminded John that he was without a phone at the present. And a laptop. And clothes. He sighed and Sherlock's eyes were instantly glued to his face again.

"I just realized I need a new phone. Clothes. Shoes. Hell, how do you even legally start to come back from the dead?"

"Mycroft took care of that," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "His PA will bring round all the necessary documents. I wouldn't be surprised if he brought you a new phone as well, state of the art, complete with a tracking device." His voice was dry as he made this pronouncement and John noticed Sherlock's frown.

"What?"

"Nothing." Sherlock shook his head and went back to texting. "As for clothes, your sister was meant to bring those round but seeing as she didn't I suppose we can send someone to do a bit of shopping. MRS. HUDSON!"

"Sherlock!" John jumped as Sherlock bellowed for their landlady but Sherlock seemed not to notice, standing up and striding about the room, still texting rapidly.

It did not take much cajoling for Mrs. Hudson to agree to nip round the corner and buy a few things for John to wear. John, his face burning in shame, said he would go as well but was silenced by both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, the latter proclaiming that he would not help John down the stairs and the former becoming outraged on John's behalf at this callousness.

Once Mrs. Hudson was gone with a basic supply list, Sherlock turned pensive and stretched himself out on the sofa, steepling his fingers underneath his chin and closing his eyes. John enjoyed watching him for a while until he noticed the small crease between Sherlock's brows indicating he was aware of John's observations and was becoming annoyed. John settled in to watch a little telly, idly flicking through the channels for a few hours, content with the peace and quiet and _normal_ in the flat. Sometimes, John realized, people underrated normal. Normal, in its own way, could be very nice.

When Sherlock finally jerked himself out of his musings, John jumped slightly then watched in confusion as Sherlock ran down the stairs without saying a word. He was gone for a while and John was resigning himself to a lonely night in when Sherlock returned with two plates full of Mrs. Hudson's cooking. One he handed to John and the other he balanced on his knees, sitting across from John in his armchair. He neglected his own food, instead glaring at John until every bite had been eaten. Sherlock had then gone back to the sofa and John, feeling drained from the day, had slipped off to bed.

* * *

After a few hours, the flat fell silent. John shifted on the bed and tried, again, to sleep. He was unable to keep his mind quiet and the longer he lay in the bed, the edgier he became. He didn't want to be alone. He was jumping at shadows every time he opened his eyes and when he closed his eyes he heard Moriarty's high, mocking laugh in his head. John was starting to feel panic creeping up his spine and his lungs felt squashed. When he brought his hands up to his face to wipe away the cold sweat, he saw the violent trembling and felt sick to his stomach.

He lurched up and quietly limped through the semi-darkened flat and poked his head around the door of the main room. All the lights were off, only the sickly yellow lights from streetlamps filtered through the windows. Sherlock was bundled up on the sofa, only the top of his curly head poking out of the blankets, asleep. John stayed in the doorway, looking at Sherlock and debating with himself, stay or go.

Finally, knowing he could not go back to Sherlock's bedroom and sleep without feeling himself going insane, he limped across the carpet and slowly sank down onto his new armchair. It made a soft whooshing noise and John paused, certain he had woken Sherlock, but the man slept on. He sighed softly and stared around the darkened flat, still unable to believe that he was back, he was home. It was a changed home and it felt different…but it was still _home_.

John leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and was just about to drift off when Sherlock stirred on the couch. He rose up on an elbow and stared blearily at John.

"John? What is it?"

John shook his head, realized Sherlock might not be able to see this movement in the dark, and finally said, "Nothing. Just couldn't sleep."

There was silence from the man on the couch for long minutes. John knew Sherlock probably could not see him very well but he could swear that he felt Sherlock's eyes zooming about his body, deducing his own answers to why John was sitting in the living room at midnight.

Finally, wordlessly, Sherlock raised his blanket up and pressed himself to the back of the sofa. His invitation was clear and John, hesitating for a few seconds, stood and limped over to the sofa.

It was a tight fit and John's cast made it awkward but John managed to climb onto the sofa and prop his cast on the sofa arm at the end. Sherlock dropped the blanket around him, and John, after debating with himself the appropriateness of the action, pressed his face against Sherlock's chest, getting as close of possible to him. He felt Sherlock hesitate only slightly before he loosely wrapped his arms around John. Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair again and John felt him breathe in deeply.

Neither man said a word but finally John's trembling stopped and his breathing evened out. Sherlock stayed awake the rest of the night, content to hold his doctor in his arms and think.


	13. Chapter 13

**So sorry it has been a few days since I updated. There are so many distractions during the Christmas season- this is my favorite time of year! **

**Thanks to my 141 followers- you are awesome for liking this fic. :)**

**Please review! Thanks!**

* * *

When John awoke, sunlight was streaming into the room and he was momentarily disoriented. He stayed perfectly still, trying to figure out where he was. The soft whooshing of someone breathing anchored him and, barely tilting his head up, he saw Sherlock's face, relaxed in sleep. Memories from the previous night washed over him. He remembered crawling onto the sofa with Sherlock, snuggling against the lanky man and then slowly drifting into a dreamless sleep, content in the loose circle of Sherlock's arms.

Somehow they had shifted during the night so John was sprawled across Sherlock, who lay on his back, his head resting on the younger man's chest, with Sherlock's long arms wrapped tightly around him. Too tightly. John could feel the familiar tension in his chest at being restricted but closed his eyes and focused on his breathing and enjoying the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest beneath his cheek. This was Sherlock. Sherlock was not going to hurt him. In fact, Sherlock was giving him comfort, was hugging him. It was fine. John _wanted_ this.

No matter what he told himself, John could feel the panic building and he was beginning to shake. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to swallow around the knot in his throat, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before it woke Sherlock and he found John falling apart in his arms.

It was humiliating and John hated that he could not control it, could not control his own body. He was stronger than this. He was a soldier who had seen war, death, and destruction. He had killed people and not reacted in this way. Even when he returned from Afghanistan, wounded and tormented from nightmares, he had not felt this overwhelming fear. Fear of what?

He felt Sherlock stir beneath him and John propelled himself upwards, wincing at the resulting pain in his fingers, easily breaking Sherlock's hold on him. John staggered to his feet, wincing as his ankle twinged in protest but the only thought he had was getting away from Sherlock as quickly as possible before he totally lost it.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was very deep from sleep and confused.

"Just going to take a shower." John said, his voice coming out too breathy and weak but he decided that was the best he could do and limped his way to the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it without thinking.

He slid down the door to sit on the tile, shaking and fighting off tears of pure humiliation and anger at himself. Moriarty had not broken him, he thought, but he had damaged him and John was starting to think it was irreversible. No matter which way he looked there was only doom. There was no place for him here at Baker Street. Sherlock had made that obvious by taking over the rest of the flat, leaving nothing of John's to be seen, and moving on with his life. It was now confirmed that John had no place here by the fact that he could not even fucking sleep by himself in a semi-darkened room without panicking. Pathetic. He had woken up in the arms of the man he knew he loved and wanted to be with and all he had been able to manage was blind panic because that man's grip was a bit too tight.

John sighed and tried to regulate his breathing, gather his scattered thoughts, and soothe his nerves before he took a shower.

It was when he realized that, as much as he would love a shower, he would be unable to take one without help, that he lost the fight with his tears. Sherlock would have to wrap his cast and splints in plastic before he could get into the shower. There was no way John could wrap them himself. He stifled his pathetic sobs against the palm of his hand, his lungs hurting from the pressure.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was low and calm on the other side of the door and John flinched from it. He did not want Sherlock to see him like this.

"I'm-"he cleared his throat a few times before managing to sound more human. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Be out in a minute."

"_John_."

Of course he had not fooled Sherlock for a minute. He would know what was going on, deduce it probably before John knew. Sighing in defeat, John managed, wincing and cursing softly, to leverage himself up from the floor and sit on the side of the bath, unlocking the door with his good hand.

The door slowly opened and Sherlock cautiously approached John who kept his gaze fixed on the floor, taking deep, steadying breaths. Sherlock's bare feet appeared in his line of vision and then Sherlock knelt before him, bringing his face to John's level.

"Don't hide from me, John." Sherlock moved his hand so John could see it approaching and gently wiped one of his tears away, his hand smoothing along John's cheek. John resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean into the contact. He was not that pitiful yet.

Sherlock could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It…_hurt_ to see John so upset and lost…but he didn't know what to say. He felt as if his throat was choked up and no words could escape. What was he supposed to say to make John feel better, to improve the situation? How did some people make it look so easy- always saying the right words at the right time? Sherlock had never been able to do that and now that he really, really wanted to, still found himself frustratingly unable.

John watched as Sherlock struggled to find words, a first in John's memory, and he reluctantly smiled.

"Why-"

The loud ringing of Sherlock's phone echoed from the other room and John jumped while Sherlock remained calm and steady, his eyes still boring into John's with grave intensity.

"John-"

"You better get that, Sherlock. Could be a case." John said, managing a smile. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he hesitated before getting up and padding away to answer the call.

John stayed seated, regulating his breathing and allowing his heart rate to return to normal. He could hear Sherlock speaking to whoever had called but was unable to make out any words. John's face was starting to burn in shame at the memory of how he had acted when Sherlock reappeared, his eyes bright and excited.

"Lestrade. Triple murder-no leads." His voice contained barely concealed glee and John could not help but genuinely smile back at him. No matter how horrible he felt, it still made John feel happy to be back at Baker Street and watch Sherlock dash about on cases.

He fully expected Sherlock to run from the room and frantically ready himself to go out, so John was surprised when Sherlock dropped to his knees before him, produced a roll of plastic wrap, and began wrapping John's cast and splints. Sherlock talked the entire time, detailing what Lestrade had told him and finally giving John a Look.

"Mycroft left your new mobile and the paperwork on the kitchen table. Text me if you need anything."

John smiled noncommittally at this, knowing Sherlock would not answer if he were on a case. Sherlock frowned and awkwardly touched John's hand, the one less wrapped in plastic than the other. John felt the contact like a shock up his arm and he looked questioningly at Sherlock.

"I actually mean that, John." Sherlock said, his voice low and a bit confused. "If you need me…text me. For anything. _I'll come back_. I promise."

He suddenly rose and strode from the room. John sat, frozen in shock, and listened to the flurry of activity as Sherlock got ready and then, calling out a quick goodbye to John, slammed the door behind him.

John was unsure…but somehow Sherlock's declaration that he would come back, tear himself away from a case that obviously excited him…if almost felt as if Sherlock had just confessed that he loved him. He shook his head. Ridiculous.

* * *

John sat propped comfortably on the sofa, scrolling through his newly revived blog and reading over old cases, smiling and laughing alternatively, cheering himself up very nicely, when he heard Mrs. Hudson greeting someone downstairs. The slow tread of someone coming up the stairs signaled that he had a visitor. He squared his shoulders and closed Sherlock's laptop.

Since he had come back from the "dead," John had been spared a stream of visitors, and he thought he had either Sherlock or Mycroft to gratefully thank for this. The idea of seeing his old friends and colleagues again, going over and over how he had been alive for the past 6 months, their speculation of his time in captivity- it was enough to make him nauseous. It was not something he wanted to endure just yet and luckily had not been forced to. It seemed his reprieve was at an end.

When Mycroft stepped into the room, John, for the first time, felt relief at seeing the elder Holmes.

"Ah, Doctor Watson, I see that you are looking much improved since the last time I saw you." Mycroft smiled thinly and John frowned at this cool pronouncement since he could not remember the last time he had seen Mycroft. Then he realized it must have been during the period he had been out of his head in the hospital and decided not to mention it.

"Thanks for the mobile and…easing the way back into the living." John said wryly, aware of how much Mycroft had helped and feeling it was the right thing to do to thank him. He could imagine the look of outrage on Sherlock's face and smiled.

"It was no trouble. It was the very least I could do considering the circumstances. I was hoping to speak to you alone."

John frowned. "Why?"

"You know how…_dramatic_ my brother can be." Mycroft looked momentarily disgusted then looked about the flat, noting the changes. "It is my understanding that you intend to live here once again."

"Yes," John said shortly, deciding it was no business of Mycroft's where he lived.

"Come now, Doctor Watson, no need to be snappish." He smiled at John and seated himself in John's new armchair, his hands caressing the arms. "Where is my dear brother?"

"You would know," John said, annoyed. Mycroft knew where Sherlock was better than John ever did. He didn't understand why Mycroft always wanted to play these little games but John did not have the patience for it.

Mycroft laughed softly. "My sources indicate that he is currently solving a case for Detective Inspector Lestrade. We all know how much The Work means to my brother."

John's jaw clenched and he wondered where Mycroft was heading with this. He was sure Sherlock would have already deduced it but he was much slower than Sherlock's quick intellect.

Mycroft paused as if he expected John to say something, when he did not, he smiled and continued. "You are only back at the flat for one day and my brother is already off and solving cases. He gets bored very quickly, doesn't he, John? It was always a failing of his, that incessant boredom and the lengths he would go to alleviate it. On more than one occasion I have been called upon to fix his mistakes."

A feeling of dread settled in his gut as John realized what he _thought_ Mycroft was saying. He swallowed and tried to show no outward signs of distress but he was sure Mycroft's eyes could pick up on the elevated heart rate, increased breathing.

In the silence that followed, the sound of the front door slamming was very loud and John jumped. Mycroft stayed perfectly still as Sherlock's running footsteps were heard and he burst into the flat, his cheeks reddened from the cold and his coat flying. In less than a second Sherlock took in the scene, his eyes narrowed and he turned a hostile glare at Mycroft.

"What are you doing here?"

"I merely stopped by to see how our dear Doctor Watson was doing. He seems to be recovering well. I see you are making sure of this." It seemed an innocuous statement but Sherlock's face blanked, all emotion wiped clean, and Mycroft smirked as if he had won a small victory.

"Get out," Sherlock said in a low, menacing voice.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose but he stood and faced his brother. "No offense, Sherlock. It was kindly meant."

"I don't need your interference, Mycroft," Sherlock spat and John looked from one brother to the other.

"As you wish, Sherlock," Mycroft inclined his head. "Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." He said, smiling coldly.

As the sounds of Mycroft's footsteps retreated down the stairs, there was silence in the flat, each man avoiding eye contact with the other. John did not know what to say and Sherlock seemed in the middle of some important thoughts. Finally, John cleared his throat and opened the laptop again, though his enjoyment for his blog was greatly diminished.

Before he could focus on what he was looking at, Sherlock strode over and slammed the lid shut, taking the laptop and tossing it onto his chair before turning back to John and looming over him. John's heart rate spiked and Sherlock must have seen something in his face because he was suddenly on his knees beside the couch, level with John and no longer looming.

"My brother is an idiot and whatever he told you was a lie." He said harshly. "I…I'm…" he swallowed nervously and John was once again surprised to see Sherlock without words.

"Just say it, Sherlock. Whatever it is." John prompted, needing to hear Sherlock tell him if he wanted him in the flat or to get the hell out.

Sherlock's eyes, which had been flicking wildly around the room, finally met John's. He took a deep breath.

"I…I thought you'd want to blog about this morning's case. I know you weren't there but that doesn't mean…Once you start coming with me again I won't have to but…I will tell you every detail from this morning and you can write it up. I even thought of a good title for it: The Adventure of the Carnivorous Cats."

John smiled at Sherlock, understanding what his words meant, and the tightness in his chest loosened. "Maybe leave the titles up to me, yeah?"

Sherlock laughed and his eyes lit up as John joined him. It was then Sherlock realized, in the staggering way that many of his greatest deductions happened, that he would do or say anything to keep John laughing just as he was at that moment…and away from the darkness he had seen that morning.


	14. Chapter 14

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock paused in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and gave John an "Isn't -It-Obvious?" look.

"I've decided to sleep in my own bed tonight."

"Right." John started to get up, moving the covers to the side, "I'll just sleep on the sofa-"

"Nonsense, John. I do not think either of us wants to continue sleeping on the sofa. Not only does it not provide adequate spinal support but our positions during sleep can become quite cramped and uncomfortable. You are experiencing difficulties sleeping by yourself and I require a comfortable place to lie. Our sleeping together in the bed is only logical."

John stared in shock as Sherlock tossed his shirt in the hamper and proceeded to unfasten his trousers. John looked away, his ears burning, and he realized why Sherlock was so keen on sharing a bed with him. He should have known Sherlock would notice that John had delayed going to bed until almost midnight, despite the fact that his eyelids were drooping and every other minute he experienced a jaw wrenching yawn. Finally, when he nodded off in his armchair, waking with a jerk of his head that he was sure looked comical, John conceded defeat and took himself to bed.

He had lain under the covers, concentrating on his breathing, and keeping his eyes firmly closed. After 20 minutes, during which time John began hyperventilating, though he tried to do this as quietly as possible, he was sternly lecturing himself that he could do this-_he could do this_- he would stay in this damn bed and sleep- fuck, fuck, _fuck_ oh damn it all to hell he wanted to get up and run from the room, there were too many fucking shadows, his skin was crawling- _stop it_! He could _do this_, it was just sleeping in a bed for fuck's sake.

It was too hard. John shifted position on the bed and tried to force himself to relax. He would do this. He wanted to do this on his own so badly. His eyes flew open when he heard the calm, hateful voice as if it were speaking directly in his ear.

"You're scared. I can see it in your eyes. You're trying not to show it, always the brave soldier, but it's there. What are you afraid of, John? What makes your heart beat faster, adrenaline pulse through your veins, your stomach knot in terror? Is it me? Do I scare you, John?" Then the laughter. The horrible, echoing laughter that climbed inside John's head and refused to leave, threatening to drive him mad.

John jerked upright, sweat running from his forehead, with the intention of going back to the living room when Sherlock sailed in and, with no preamble, began undressing and explaining that _logically_, they should share a bed.

Now, as Sherlock joined John beneath the covers, clad only in his pants, John felt like hyperventilating for an entirely different reason. Sherlock, he knew, thought his body was mere transport but John wondered- did he have _no_ idea what effect he had on John?

No, he sternly replied, of course not. I'm his friend, his very heterosexual friend (he thinks), that needs comfort not…_that_ and everything _that_ entailed.

John continued this train of thought and felt like the world's biggest pervert.

It was about comforting him, not arousing him. John adjusted his head on the pillow and refused to allow himself to look over at Sherlock and ogle. He had not allowed himself to look at Sherlock while he was undressing because it just seemed wrong to be staring at his nearly naked friend and having lustful thoughts when Sherlock would be oblivious to it.

Sherlock, lying mere inches away from John on his back, was rather confused. He had assumed, after John had so readily embraced him last night, John would do the same tonight. He knew John needed the comfort of another person with him just now- John had not been hyperventilating as quietly as he thought- and Sherlock thought the bed was a perfectly logical step. No matter how pleasant sleeping with John on the sofa had been, it had still left him with a crick in his neck and had to have been similarly uncomfortable for John, especially considering John's heavy cast and splinted fingers. Sleeping together in the bed would be easier for them both but John still seemed very uncomfortable. Probably from his earlier panic attack. Sherlock had seen John's terrified face on walking into the room but he had not asked what was wrong. It was obvious, even for someone who was not a genius.

As John shifted restlessly again, Sherlock thought he had rather looked forward to the physical contact with John. It made his body feel very odd, but in a rather nice, enjoyable way, and he had wanted to explore this further. It was a novel sensation and he wondered if it could even be replicated or had merely taken place because he had been so pleased to have John back at the flat. There was only one way to test the theory…except John was infuriatingly not cooperating.

Sherlock knew that John should make the first move physically since he was so easily startled and that sometimes physical contact was too much. He fidgeted a bit waiting but John remained lying beside him on his back, stiff as a board.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you ok?"

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

"I assumed you would want to be intimate with me."

It sounded as if John choked on something and Sherlock turned his head to look, slightly concerned. He could see, in the dim light cast from the hall, John's jaw was clenched, his face red, and his eyes wide as he stared up at the ceiling, completely and utterly still.

"You thought…_what_?"

"I thought you would want to be intimate with me, like last night." Sherlock said, sounding irritated. John knew he hated to repeat himself.

"Like…last night. _Right_." John raised a shaking hand to gingerly rub at his face with his good fingers. He was officially the world's biggest pervert.

"Are you sure you're fine?" Sherlock asked, scooting a bit closer. He could see the pulse at John's neck beating wildly and his breathing was erratic. "Are you having another panic attack?"

"No, Sherlock, it's…fine. Really. I'm fine. I'm ok."

They endured a few more awkward minutes in silence until John finally sighed again, mumbled a rather embarrassed sounding "goodnight" to Sherlock and turned over on his side, facing away from him.

Sherlock laid awake for hours, content to listen to John breathe as he slept. The noise was oddly soothing and helped him think. It was not as pleasant as being pressed close to John as they had the night before, but it was still nice to be so close to his personal blogger. He was beginning to feel rather tired and contemplating sleep himself when John, still fast asleep, rolled over and threw an arm and leg across Sherlock, holding him tightly. John sighed against Sherlock's shoulder and rubbed his face against his skin before settling back down, snoring slightly.

Pleased at this development but careful not to restrict John in any way, Sherlock lightly ruffled his nose through John's hair, inhaling his unique scent, then rested his head on top of John's, closing his eyes with a small, content smile.

* * *

John was warm, very warm, comfortable, his body sinking into the mattress and feeling delightfully boneless and dreamy. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the feel of his lungs expanding without pain, and then exhaled, tightening his grip around the person in his arms, rubbing his cheek against the smooth, warm skin. It was so pleasant to wake up-

_Fuck._

John's eyes flew open and were met with the sight of the smooth expanse of Sherlock's pale, bare chest, flat stomach and a hint of darkness where the blanket draped suggestively over his hips. John swallowed, the lazy feeling evaporating instantly.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock's voice rumbled in his chest beneath John's face and John slowly rolled away from Sherlock, putting a foot of distance between them before replying.

"Good morning, Sherlock. Sleep well?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally. "You?"

"Much better." John smiled and turned his head to look at Sherlock. It had been the best rest since before he had been abducted and, besides the embarrassment of waking up curled around Sherlock (although that had felt sinfully wonderful), John felt very positive and ready to face the day. It was a nice feeling he was determined to embrace, for however long it lingered.

Sherlock's lips parted as he stared at John smiling at him, still endearingly rumpled from sleep, and thought he was having a heart attack. His heart was fluttering and skipping beats and John was still smiling at him as if he were unaware, his eyes happy with only a hint of sadness.

The moment was over in a flash as John turned away and rose from the bed, retrieving his crutch and limping into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock remained in bed for a while longer, frowning as he thought about his reaction.

* * *

John paused in the middle of the living room and debated whether or not to pull Sherlock from his Mind Palace. He had been lying on the sofa for the past 5 hours, his hands pressed beneath his chin, eyes closed, deep in thought, and John did not want to disturb him. He did, however, need to get down the stairs and hail a cab to go to his first physical therapy session. The splints were finally coming off his fingers and it was a very happy day. He chewed the inside of his cheek and pivoted a bit on his crutch to gaze at the top of the stairs. He had gotten up the damn things. He would get down them on his own. Steel entered his resolve.

Casting a last glance at Sherlock, who remained unaware and unmoved, John moved to the head of the stairs and looked down. He set his lips in a thin line and, grasping the railing with one hand and steadying his crutch with the other, he began the slow, arduous descent down.

* * *

At the sound of the curse, Sherlock's eyes popped open and he was instantly aware that John was attempting to navigate the stairs on his own. He frowned as he suppressed the urge to help him as it would only annoy John. Sherlock strained his ears and listened to John's progress down and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up the many ways (there were 58) John could injure himself falling down the stairs.

John was, by Sherlock's estimation, 4 steps down from the top, when a loud curse and a horrible, banging noise signaled a fall.

Sherlock jackknifed from the sofa and tore through the doorway, skidding to a stop at the very top. His heart was beating in his chest and the sweet zing of adrenaline was coursing through his veins as he took in John, desperately clutching to the bannister, watching as his crutch clattered loudly down the rest of the stairs. Sherlock's knees felt weak with relief and he steadied himself on the railing as well, breathing in steadily. He should have deduced what the noise was- but he had not thought, had only reacted out of fear that John was injured. Sherlock quietly scolded himself for this foolishness.

"Damn," John cursed and hopped a bit and Sherlock was instantly at his side, keeping his distance until John was aware of him.

John eyed him, his lips thin and face creased in annoyance and Sherlock stared right back. Without words, Sherlock insinuated himself at John's side and John began to leverage himself down the stairs, swinging himself between the railing and Sherlock. He was aware of how weak and pathetic he looked , not to mention the fact that he was annoying Sherlock while he was thinking. He felt shame churning in his gut and could not help but wonder what Sherlock was thinking as he helped John down the stairs.

Sherlock's mind was on a field trip. Each time John squeezed his arm around his shoulders there was a pleasant jerk in the vicinity of Sherlock's navel. Sherlock could see from the corner of his eye how close John's face was to his, close enough that he could see he was freshly shaven- and instantly the image of rubbing his own face against John's smooth one came into his mind. He wondered how John would react- would he push Sherlock away (unlikely since Sherlock was now serving as a temporary crutch and this would mean John would fall if he were pushed away) or would he pull Sherlock closer, run his lips, then tongue, along Sherlock's jaw, finally ending in a kiss? He wondered how John's lips would feel against his, actually alert and aware of his actions, and his mouth went dry.

With a relieved sigh, John reached the landing and turned to Sherlock whose eyes were glazed over, obviously deep in thought.

"Thanks."

Sherlock turned to face John and he was suddenly aware that they were only inches away from each other. Each place John was currently touching Sherlock burned and he realized they were hip to hip and that felt very, wonderfully erotic. He cleared his throat and pulled himself away from Sherlock, taking more of his weight on the railing, not wanting to reward Sherlock's helpfulness with unwanted sexual advances from his mental flat mate.

When John pulled away, Sherlock jerked his gaze away from John's face, his own beginning to burn as he realized what he had been allowing himself to think. He bent and handed John his crutch without looking at him, then quickly turned and dashed up the stairs. John watched him go, lips pursed.

John had reached the door when Sherlock's voice called back down, "Next time, don't be such an _idiot_ and ask for my help first, John!"

Finally cracking a smile, John opened the door and limped into the watery winter sunshine.

* * *

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	15. Chapter 15

**Once again, many, many thanks to everyone! I will possibly not be updating for the next two days- tedious Christmas family gatherings are tedious- but I promise to return :)**

* * *

Sherlock watched John climb into the cab through a small crack in the curtains. It was taking an embarrassing amount of willpower not to grab his coat and scarf and run after John, follow him around all day, just to make sure he remained safe. It was not logical, nor was it practical, but Sherlock felt fear beat in his chest at the idea of John leaving the flat _alone_ and going about London, especially in his weakened condition. The last time John had left the flat he had not returned.

Sherlock frowned. That did not mean John would not return this time. He was being irrational. He knew he was but the fear remained with him.

When the cab finally pulled away, Sherlock closed the curtain and looked around the flat, feeling a bit lost and still suppressing the urge to run after John. He knew John's destination, after all. It would not be that difficult to- _no_. John would be fine and he would not appreciate Sherlock tailing him everywhere he went.

Then again, John would never have to know.

It was tempting…Sherlock started to walk over to his coat before he stopped himself and made a face. He was not leaving the flat to spy- _protect_, his mind insisted- on John. John would be fine.

Sherlock resolutely went to the kitchen and began an experiment. John was out of the flat, leaving only himself and Mrs. Hudson. The time to implement his revenge for Mrs. Hudson's removal of his important experiments from the fridge was now.

* * *

Mycroft studied the screen, watching as John managed to awkwardly maneuver himself into the cab. He was rather angry that Sherlock had deduced where he had hidden the new cameras inside 221B and irritably ripped them all out. Now Mycroft was reduced to spying on his brother and John with the cameras positioned outside the flat. As the whole of London CCTV was at his disposal, Mycroft decided this was not a very bad thing, however it would have been much easier to have first-hand knowledge of the goings-on in the flat.

He had never known his brother to care deeply about anyone besides himself and this made him worried for John Watson. Mycroft was convinced it was only a matter of time before Sherlock realized he did not have much affection or patience for the damaged doctor and abandoned him. It was not a pleasing prospect. Mycroft worried about the state of John's mental health after such abandonment, especially since he was already delicate after his time with Moriarty.

He had tried to talk to Sherlock in the hospital, before John was ever released, to gauge Sherlock's willingness and commitment to John. At that point, it had been obvious he was committed to his doctor but Mycroft had made sure to make him aware that if taking care of John became too much, Mycroft would be there to help. Sherlock had not taken it well. He had always hated being doubted. Mycroft felt it was only natural to suspect that Sherlock would tire of John. Nothing occupied his interest for very long and John was now not able to provide much distraction for Sherlock, injured as he was.

When Mycroft had seen Sherlock leaving the flat yesterday and realized he had left John alone in order to take a case, he had gone to talk to John and make him aware that he would be willing to help him find a new place. Mycroft grimaced remembering that meeting, which had not gone well. Sherlock could be _so_ dramatic and, remembering John's hurt face, he had felt like he was kicking the man when he was down. That had not been his intention.

Mycroft zoomed the camera in on John's face as he climbed out of the cab at his doctor's office. Lines creased his face, pain and agitation. He was still much too thin- he had lost almost 30 pounds during his captivity and he had only made small gains. Mycroft knew Mrs. Hudson would keep feeding him until John was healthy and probably fat.

Guilt tugged insistently as he watched John limp into the doctor's office and it kept pricking at his conscious as he hacked into the doctor's office cameras. He watched as the doctor removed the splints and made John do some basic exercises with his newly repaired fingers. They were still a bit crooked but straighter than they had been. Mycroft winced as John attempted to grip a ball with his left hand and dropped it, his fingers refusing to curve around the sphere properly. The doctor was talking, assuring him that with therapy his strength would return, etc, etc.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and watched John's physical therapy session. He was noticeably better with his right hand than his left, which Mycroft supposed was good since that was his gun hand. Finally, when the session was over and John hailed a cab to leave, Mycroft turned away from the bank of screens and stood, smoothing out his suit and grabbing his umbrella. He was the British Government, after all. He did not have all day to laze about.

* * *

John felt as if someone was watching him as he hailed a cab outside 221B Baker Street. The back of his neck itched and he could barely contain the impulse to glance wildly around and find out who was staring. He entered the cab and shook himself, mentally and physically. It was just his PTSD making another unwanted appearance, he supposed: Unwarranted suspicion that he was constantly being watched, uneasiness, fear. The happiness of the morning faded slightly and John frowned. It had been so…nice to feel happy.

The feeling of being watched stayed with him throughout the day, from his doctor's appointment to remove the splints and discuss his ability or lack thereof, to his physical therapy session. As he had flexed his fingers through the exercises, John wondered how adequately he would be able to use a gun. His right hand was much better than his left but his trigger finger had been the broken digit on that hand and it was still twisted, bowing out slightly at the middle knuckle. John made a mental note to practice very soon.

As John climbed back into a cab after his therapy session, he gave the cabbie instructions to drive to Tesco's near 221B. Mrs. Hudson had purchased the basics for him and, while he was grateful, John wanted to buy a few comfortable jumpers. Sherlock had thrown all his out- or else his sister still had them- and John believed that Sherlock had instructed Mrs. Hudson to purchase only button up shirts for him. This was unacceptable and John smiled thinking of Sherlock's exasperated expression if he walked into the flat in a jumper when he returned.

John rolled his shoulders and rotated his neck, trying to ease the tension that was climbing up his spine from the feeling of constantly being watched. He breathed deeply and concentrated on the scenes of London that flashed past his cab window. It felt odd to be…well, _alive_- out and about, breathing in the clogged air, able to do as he liked in the city. After so long of being held captive, John supposed this was only natural, the feeling as if he was a bird that had been released from a cage. He knew that was fanciful but the feeling made him giddy and he found himself smiling again, his happiness returning.

John smiled as he managed to get out of the cab at Tesco's much better without splints on his fingers. This little victory seemed to make life a bit better. He _still_ felt as if he were being observed but once again he dismissed it as nerves. He was feeling cautiously optimistic as he limped into the store and was instantly assaulted by bright lights and people, people everywhere. There were too many sounds, loud sounds, far-away, coming from all around him.

John breathed deeply, overwhelmed, and tried to steady himself but when someone laughed, high and cackling, he jumped and his heart kicked up. He felt lightheaded and his trembling returned in full force, making his entire body feel as if it were vibrating. He spun about and exited the store as quickly as possible.

He hailed a cab and tried to control his unsteady hands and jittery legs as they drove closer to 221B Baker Street. He was determined not to arrive back at the flat having a panic attack. He wiped away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead and closed his eyes, trying to think of nothing at all and calm himself.

When he returned to 221B Baker Street, it was to find the fire brigade just leaving, a soot-blackened Sherlock being yelled at by Mrs. Hudson, and the entire flat smelled of smoke and something a bit more noxious. Sherlock remained vague as to what exactly had happened and Mrs. Hudson went over all nice when she saw John return. She glared venomously at Sherlock but ushered John inside to feed him, shutting her flat door in Sherlock's face when he tried to follow them.

"Try and get everything cleaned up!" John yelled at him through the door then spent the next hour happily tucking into Mrs. Hudson's excellent cooking while Sherlock sulkily scrubbed the kitchen.

* * *

The man remained hidden in the alley, camouflaged by the lengthening shadows, his keen eyes marking the man hobbling up to the still smoking flat on his crutch. He had begun his silent vigilance earlier that morning as his target left the flat. He had started trailing the doctor before he left the hospital but the man had been heavily guarded and it had been pointless to risk exposure. He had given him some space then and watched the flat instead, gleaning information on the comings and goings of the landlady. He had observed the doctor hobble into the flat two days ago, and this was the first time he had emerged. He had followed the doctor all day, from the flat to his appointment, and finally Tesco's, but had not made his move. Yet.

He was no sloppy amateur. He would need more information before he acted. He never did anything without the proper intelligence. When he struck, it would be with precision and he would be successful. Failure was not an option. He never failed.

It was with a cold, anticipatory smile that the man in the alley cast one last look at 221B Baker Street before walking away.

* * *

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	16. Chapter 16

**Merry Christmas everyone! I hope everyone had a wonderful one! Here is a bit of sweet Johnlock as a present for you all. Thanks to everyone!**

* * *

Moriarty smiled and kicked John's swollen and broken ankle. John savagely bit his lip to stifle his scream of pain and blood poured into his mouth. Moriarty kicked him again with his expensive leather shoes and John grunted in pain, trying to twist away and Moriarty laughed, the sound echoing in the room.

"Scream, John." He taunted, his voice cool and calm. "Scream. No one can hear you. _Scream_!" His face was twisted maniacally and John shuddered.

John tried to stand but his arms were weak and shaking too badly, refusing to support him. Moriarty kicked him again, this time in the ribs, and John felt something crack as pain radiated through his body, freezing the air in his lungs and forcing a sharp cry from his lips.

Moriarty laughed again. "_Scream_!"

John opened his eyes in time to see Moriarty grin and step directly onto his damaged ankle.

He screamed, unable to hold it back in the onslaught of the horrible, wrenching, throbbing pain that shot through his leg, burning hot. Moriarty was laughing as John screamed, laughing and bouncing ever so slightly. Oh god, oh god, please- please- please!

"_Please! God, stop! Stop_!" John was sobbing, his ankle throbbing, white hot pain shooting up his leg.

"John! John!" Cool hands touched his face and John reacted, jerking away and swinging out with his fist. He connected with flesh and heard a painful grunt. The hands returned, gripping his wrist, and panic made John desperate. He propelled himself backwards- the hands tried to find purchase on his leg but he jerked away- and fell with a painful thud to the floor.

John lay, stunned and shocked, on the floor, staring up at Sherlock's bedroom ceiling, his heart thundering in his ears and breathing as if he had just ran a marathon. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his entire body was shaking. His ankle throbbed and his ribs ached as if he had only just been kicked.

He raised his head slightly to see Sherlock crouched on the bed, his face carefully blank, blood gently trickling from his rapidly swelling lip, making sure to keep his distance from John, probably in case he became violent again.

John groaned and covered his face with trembling hands, dropping his head back to the floor with a dull thud.

"John?"

"I'm sorry." His voice was shaking and a single tear escaped his eye which he angrily wiped away, huffing out a breath, trying to fend off more. Fear still reverberated through his body and was joined with shame and self-loathing. He had actually hit Sherlock. Angry tears burned his eyelids and he covered his eyes with his arm to prevent them from falling.

Sherlock slithered off the bed and knelt at John's side, a silent presence. John jumped when Sherlock's hand crept into his, exerting no pressure, merely resting there, and John gripped it tightly,

"What was your dream about?"

John shuddered. "Moriarty." He mouthed the word, unable to speak around the constriction in his throat that threatened to choke him. He screwed his face up and tried to suppress the sobs that were building in his chest. He concentrated on breathing in and out, in and out, calm, calm, calm. Breathe, breathe.

He jumped again when Sherlock pressed his body against his side. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock stretched out on his back on the floor beside him, staring up at the ceiling, merely pressing his body as close to John's as possible without restricting him. John turned his head away and closed his eyes again, trying to calm himself.

They lay on the floor for long minutes as John gained control of himself and won the war with his emotions. Finally, he felt able to speak again.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice steadier than it had been earlier.

"No need to apologize, John." Sherlock said, lightly squeezing John's hand. "You were experiencing a flash-back, perfectly normal. It's to be expected."

John was silent then spoke hesitantly. "I didn't hurt you too badly, did I?"

Sherlock snorted. "I've had worse, John."

John glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. Sherlock was doing the same, smiling over at him, and John smiled back at him weakly, shaking his head.

"Worse than your mental flat mate having a nightmare and punching you?" He rubbed his face with his free hand, unwilling to let go of the hand Sherlock was holding. "Maybe I should move out."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're not moving out. You're not mental. Quit feeling sorry for yourself, John, and get back in bed." He released John's hand, trailing his fingers along John's warm skin before taking his hand away completely.

John snorted then hauled himself up and sat on the side of the bed. When he was seated, Sherlock finally pulled himself from the floor and crawled back into the bed beside John. He stretched out on his back and looked over at John who was still sitting and staring into the distance.

"Maybe I _should_ move out." John said quietly, dropping his head to stare at his hands. Shame radiated from him in almost visible waves. Sherlock knew John hated feeling weak and was feeling badly for hitting him. That had not been his fault and Sherlock knew that he should have known better than to try and restrain John when he was having a flashback. Mistakes had been made on both sides.

"Don't be an idiot, John." Sherlock swallowed, frowning. He sat up and scooted closer to John, staring down at John's hands as well, not knowing what he wanted to say but feeling desperate to say it. John was unconsciously tracing the misshapen fingers of his left hand with his right. Sherlock had already visually mapped them out when John had gotten his splints taken off but now he had an overwhelming urge to touch those fingers, put them in his mouth and swirl-

Sherlock looked quickly away and felt himself flushing.

He looked at John's face, which was distant and closed off, and huffed out an impatient, irritated sigh. John was beating himself up for something that was not his fault. He was wallowing in self-pity and despair and Sherlock did not know what to say to make him feel better. Finally, he said the one thing he knew was clear and absolutely true.

"I want you _here_." He whispered and slowly leaned forward and brushed his lips against John's cheek.

John abruptly turned his head to look at Sherlock, their noses bumped, and their faces were suddenly only inches apart. Sherlock's eyes fell to John's parted lips. He thought about kissing him, closing that small distance and pressing his lips to John's. He knew from past experience it would feel wonderful- only this time they would both be aware and alert- but when he looked back into John's eyes he saw his dilated pupils and faltered. Were they dilated from desire…or fear from earlier? He could not deduce the answer in this instance and that was unnerving.

"You're not moving out." Sherlock said firmly and turned away, flipping onto his side and pulling the covers up to his ears.

He listened as John remained frozen behind him. Finally, slowly, John lay down but it was a long time before he fell asleep and rolled over to hold onto Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, John wrapped warmly around him, and plotted his strategy.

He had never felt this strongly before. These sensations had manifested before, but never so overwhelmingly, so urgently. They had always been fleeting, vague, brief glimpses, the barest whisper of thought, before Sherlock ruthlessly thrust them away, shut them down, and forgot them. Sherlock was married to his work, John was his faithful friend and blogger, and they worked well together, solving crimes. What more did he need in his life?

John mumbled sleepily at his shoulder and Sherlock rubbed his cheek against his head, closing his eyes at the contact. _That_. What was that? His eyes popped open to stare down the length of his and John's entwined bodies, the sight doing odd things to his own body and clouding his mind. He shifted his head so he could glimpse John's face, relaxed in sleep- and _there_. There was that feeling- the desire to kiss John, the hot, swooping sensation near his abdomen, a tightening of excitement in his muscles.

It started when John had walked towards him, his body strapped with explosives, and Sherlock's entire world had narrowed down to the question: _How could he manage to get John to survive this_? Nothing else had mattered. He would have handed Moriarty the plans to dominate the entire world, nuclear launch plans, anything- it didn't matter, he would have done it to protect John. Sherlock had been, at that moment, drowning in emotions but when he had analyzed them later- once John had gone to bed, shaky and pale but _alive_- he had realized an important fact about himself.

He, Sherlock Holmes, harbored strong emotions towards John Hamish Watson. Strong emotions that were not of a friendly nature but _more_ -very strong emotions. Love? Sherlock made a disgusted face, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Fools fell in love. People killed one another for "love." It seemed a pale comparison to say what he felt for John was _love_. It did not do the all-consuming, mind altering, heart pounding feeling justice.

Of course, he knew John was attracted to him. He had known since that first night at Angelo's when John had been so obviously hitting on him but trying to appear as if he were not. He had firmly told John he was not interested- and at the time he had not been. Sherlock did not want to involve himself with a man he had only just met and who would probably think him a freak. Eventually. They all did eventually.

John was different though. John had stayed, had never called him a freak, and had praised him at every available opportunity. They worked so well together. John seemed to read his mind at some times, and Sherlock wanted to be a better person to impress John. They shared the flat together, solved cases together, John yelled at Sherlock, Sherlock mocked John, and they laughed together. It was…pleasant.

Sherlock had found himself being drawn to John, surprisingly attracted to him, experiencing those odd twinges of feeling when John looked at him in a certain way, when they touched…but then it was too late. John was dating those repulsive women, a parade of women who were all the same and boring. Sherlock was petulant, selfish, and had seen nothing wrong in interrupting John's dates whenever he went out. What John had said that last day was entirely accurate- and Sherlock smiled when he remembered how John had been aware of what he was doing, even if he had not known the cause for it. John saw but did not observe.

Then John had died. Sherlock had never experienced pain so deep, so wrenching. It had been mental agony that felt physical, caused an ache in his chest, lethargy in his limbs, pain in his head. Those months had been…horrible. He felt sick remembering them and buried his face in John's hair. John shifted against him, his arm drawing tighter around Sherlock, and Sherlock hummed happily.

He wanted to pull John into his arms but after John's negative reaction that first morning, Sherlock abstained. He did not want to induce another panic attack in John, so he contented himself with stroking John's hair and, when he knew John was deeply asleep, his skin, whatever parts were exposed. Sherlock had no qualms about doing this while John was not aware of it. He supposed John would consider this a bit not good.

Sherlock knew he had these strong feelings and John's death had made him agonizingly aware of them. He had tried to push these feelings away, repress them, because what was the point? John was dead, he was not coming back- Sherlock had told himself that but…When he had been ruthlessly throwing John's things away, purging the flat of remembrances that were painful every waking minute, he had been unable to throw away John's jumpers. It had been idiotic. Sherlock had stood with the stupid, ugly jumper extended over the bin, unable to release it.

Now that John was back, Sherlock was not deluding himself anymore. He wanted…something more. "More" he supposed would be a romantic relationship with John and all that included. The problem was Sherlock did not know how to begin a romantic relationship with John. He himself had never been a participant in a romantic relationship before. It would have been difficult before John's abduction but now…now it was even harder. It would take all of Sherlock's skill, he was sure.

Sherlock decided to begin his research into the matter early the next morning, formulate a strategy, and begin this strategy when John was better. Sherlock would not start now and run the risk of overwhelming John. When John was well enough to go on cases with him, completed a case successfully, Sherlock would initiate the strategy.

He trailed his fingers down John's spine and John unconsciously pressed himself closer, sealing their bodies together from shoulder to knee. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled in the darkness.

* * *

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	17. Chapter 17

**Thank you all for the lovely reviews I received for Christmas! They truly inspired me to finish writing this chapter. :D The Johnlock is coming along nicely- finally, right? :D Enjoy!**

**Oh, and review! I love them!  
**

* * *

"Get up, John! Lestrade just texted- there's a case! John! Get up!"

John blearily opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock who was standing beside the bed, his expression both happy at the prospect of a case and irritated that John was obviously not moving as quickly as he wanted him to be. John had not been asleep but had been awake since Sherlock left the bed an hour ago. He had been so comfy, though, that he had not wanted to move and had burrowed under the blankets, sighing contentedly, the morning sun illuminating the room. John noticed that Sherlock, if he had to leave the bed before John was ready, always opened the curtains so the sun could shine in, reassuring John when he woke of where he was. It was a gesture John was grateful for.

It had been 3 weeks since John had returned to 221B and he and Sherlock had fallen into a (dull) routine. John stayed at the flat during the day, leaving only for visits to his psychiatrist and physical therapy sessions, and felt himself growing increasingly bored and irritated. He still felt as if he were being watched when he left the flat but his psychiatrist gently assured him that this was a perfectly normal reaction in people who had experienced traumatic events. John had not been reassured until he had caught sight of one of the CCTV cameras gently rotating in his direction. He should have known Mycroft would be watching him and from then on he attributed the feeling to the British Government.

Sherlock went out at all hours and solved thrilling cases, always returning to tell John so he could blog about it. They slept in the same bed at night, though oftentimes Sherlock did not sleep but sat or reclined with his eyes closed and thought. No matter if Sherlock slept or not, John always woke curled around Sherlock's warm body. He had not stopped being embarrassed but Sherlock never mentioned it and even, on occasion, seemed rather pleased at the contact.

Since that night two weeks ago, John had experienced three more flashbacks during sleep. Each one had left him screaming, his body aching all over, but he had not attacked Sherlock again, for which he was sure they were both grateful. Sherlock began bringing his violin into the bedroom with him at night and was experimenting with John and his flashbacks. Sherlock was annoyed he had not yet worked out the correct time to begin playing soothing music in order to stave off a flashback- it was his theory that it could be done, John was not as sure- but Sherlock was certain he would discover it soon. John hoped, rather than was assured, that he would.

John's days passed in a monochromatic blur, boring, dull, and uninspiring. He loved when Sherlock came back, high from the success of a case solved, to tell him about it but he wanted to be out there with Sherlock, by his side, experiencing everything firsthand. His panic attacks were now few and far between- John had refused the medication his therapist attempted to prescribe him- and he felt that he may be ready to go out again. He certainly wanted to very badly.

Finally, John had not been able to stand it any longer and, the next time Sherlock returned and finished detailing the thrilling case, he broached the subject.

"Maybe next time I'll go with you." John said offhandedly, keeping his eyes fixed on his laptop but he saw Sherlock raise his head from his sprawl in the armchair. Sherlock didn't say a word but John could feel his eyes on him, keen and deducing. It made him uncomfortable, especially when he was sure that Sherlock did not blink but saw everything.

John cleared his throat, beginning to think he may have said the wrong thing as Sherlock still did not reply, either in the affirmative nor the negative. Perhaps Sherlock did not want him to go on a case with him.

"Or not." He kept typing and Sherlock kept watching him, not saying a word, the only sound in the flat was the sound of keys as John's fingers slowly picked out words.

John began to feel rather ashamed. Why would Sherlock want him to come on a case? He would just be deadweight holding Sherlock back, clacking along on his crutch. God forbid he had a panic attack in the middle of a case- it _was_ a possibility. John would be hyperventilating and shaking while Sherlock tried to subdue some criminal and he would get them both killed.

"You're ordinary. Stupid. Useless. Why would Sherlock want you? He's left you with me. He doesn't want you around anymore, John." The words swam through his mind, calm and insidious and John shook his head to clear them away. He was not listening to Moriarty anymore. All those words were lies, he knew that. He knew that. _He knew that_.

John firmly took his mind away from thinking of his inadequacies and that could potentially happen if he went out on a case and instead fixed his thoughts on the present case he was typing for his blog. He frowned at his notes, one of the parts not making sense…

"Sherlock, how did you deduce-"

"Iwantyouwithme, John." The words were rushed and low. John looked over in surprise but Sherlock's eyes were firmly fixed on the wall behind John's head.

"What?" John blinked, unsure if he had heard Sherlock correctly. It was a distinct possibility.

"On cases. I want you with me." Sherlock was still not looking at John. His eyes drifted about the room and he fidgeted, his fingers tapping out an irregular, frantic rhythm on the arm of the chair. He then stood up and walked to the window, picked up his violin and began to play a few lilting, upbeat notes of a piece John had never heard him play before. He kept his back to John and swayed slightly as he played.

John smiled, a bit puzzled, as he watched Sherlock play, and then turned back to editing his blog entry, happier than he had been in a while.

* * *

"What's the case?" John asked, settled comfortably in the back of the cab as he and Sherlock sped their way to the crime scene. He had been unable to ask while they were in the flat. Sherlock had seemed particularly excited to go out and had rushed him, John felt, unnecessarily. He supposed it was to be expected though and he had hurried, trying not to slow Sherlock down too much.

"Elderly woman, murdered, found by her son at their business, a high end bakery. Nothing was taken but possibly a burglary gone wrong. Scotland Yard's unable to make head or tail of it. Lestrade believes it is connected to a series of burglaries in the same area over the past 4 months and called me in to make the connection."

"Is it? Connected, I mean?"

Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes. "Probably not. I won't know for sure until we arrive, but my conjecture would be no. Lestrade wants them to be connected so he can catch one person and solve multiple crimes at once, neat and easy. Life is seldom that way, John."

John smiled and looked away, happy to be on the way to a crime scene with Sherlock. He felt fine, no tremors or choked feelings, no panic attack on the way. His ankle felt better and he was able to limp along very well. He felt ready to reclaim his life with his friend by his side.

* * *

Lestrade stared as John climbed out of the cab after Sherlock and awkwardly began making his way towards the crime scene. Sherlock was positively radiating happiness beside John, slowing his pace to match his, almost bouncing up and down in giddy excitement. It was frankly disturbing considering they were at a crime scene and Lestrade shook his head, folding his arms across his chest in disapproval. He saw John murmur something to Sherlock who gave John a swift, piercing look, then a brilliant smile, and he began walking more quickly towards Lestrade, leaving John to limp along behind.

"Do you really think it's the best idea to let him come with you?" Lestrade whispered to Sherlock, holding out an arm to stop his progress into the bakery. "I know you're excited he's back and you want your assistant but…Won't this all be too much for him?"

Sherlock stared coldly at Lestrade. "I did not force him. He wanted to come."

"That doesn't mean he's ready, Sherlock-"

Sherlock brushed past Lestrade and entered the roped off crime scene.

"Greg." John smiled, holding out his hand and Lestrade shook it.

"You're looking good." Lestrade said, smiling uneasily back at John. He could not help remembering how John had looked at the hospital, the horrible screams he had listened to. Lestrade knew John was a strong man, obviously since he had endured what he had for 6 months, but a crime scene could be triggering to even the most level-headed men and he thought that Sherlock should have known that before allowing John to come with him.

John grinned effortlessly, looking around the street which was roped off and full of police cars. "Mrs. Hudson's personal mission in life is to make me fat. I've gained 10 more pounds since I've been back."

"Do you want to wait out here?" Lestrade asked, gesturing around to where the officers were assembled, waiting on Sherlock's brilliant deductions to tell them what to do. Many of them were looking in astonishment at John who shifted uncomfortably on his crutch, avoiding eye contact.

John frowned and looked away. "I'll be fine, Greg." He said, his voice low and evasive, obviously uncomfortable at being reminded that he was changed…and mentally fragile.

Lestrade gave him a swift look, shrugged, and turned away, leading the way into the bakery behind Sherlock.

The woman lay behind the counter on her side in a pool of blood, her left arm extended as if she had been reaching for something at the time of her death. The bakery was a wreck. The glass counter had been smashed and pastries littered the floor. The till lay on its side, intact, but nothing was missing. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a burglary gone wrong.

"The alarm altered the police and simultaneously called the son's mobile. He got here first and found her."

Sherlock's snort at the ineptitude of the police went unnoticed as John and Lestrade continued talking.

"Police have been here since?"

Lestrade nodded and both he and John looked back at Sherlock who was inspecting the pastries, apparently looking for sole impressions.

"Must've either scampered off or hid somewhere then." John said offhandedly and Lestrade nodded, sighing and staring through the smashed in window.

"I used to visit this-"

"_What did you say, John_?"

They looked at Sherlock whose face was transported, eyes wide and staring at John who faltered, unsure of exactly what he had said last.

"I- um…he must've- whoever did this- must've ran away-"

"Or hidden himself somewhere! Of course!" Sherlock quickly stepped over to the broken storefront window, sweeping his eyes over the broken glass both inside and outside, shook his head, then ran to the backdoor with John and Lestrade following.

Sherlock made an excited noise when he looked at the plain, brown door- though John saw nothing unusual- and he slowly, slowly opened the door and peered around outside. Turning around, he put his finger to his lips, ordering John and Lestrade to be silent and then crept out into the alley which contained a large dumpster and piles of rubbish. John wrinkled his nose at the scent.

Sherlock began creeping up on the large dumpster, his feet making no sound, with John and Lestrade looking on in confusion. He pointed at the ground several times as he walked, apparently indicating evidence, then slowly gripped the plastic lid of the dumpster. With a great wrench, Sherlock threw back the lid- and a man sprung out of the dumpster.

He took off at a dead run and Sherlock dashed after him, his coat flying behind him.

"Come on, John!" he cried, the thrill of the chase spiking adrenaline through his veins, making him momentarily forget his friend's handicap.

John took a short step after Sherlock before realizing there was no way he could hobble after the consulting detective. The fact left him feeling rather hollow inside and he briefly stared sadly after the retreating back of the consulting detective.

"Come on, John!" Lestrade said, running to the opposite end of the alley where his car was parked, throwing open his cruiser door and starting the engine. John quickly hobbled over and threw himself into the car. He had only just shut the door before they were barreling after Sherlock, tires squealing.

"_Fuck_, where did he go?" Lestrade asked absently, his eyes scanning the alleyways as they passed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and handed it to John.

"Text him. I want his location."

Tearing his eyes away from the rapidly passing roads and alleys, John quickly thumbed a message to Sherlock then returned to scanning the buildings, looking for any sign of a genius, mad consulting detective running after a crazed murderer.

The phone in his hand pinged, startling him. "He says he's on Williams Lane-"

Lestrade cursed, jerked the wheel of the cruiser and it felt as if the car turned the sharp curve on two wheels. John clenched his jaw to keep from yelling, his eyes wide as his hands gripped the edge of his seat.

"I don't like you not being with him, John. Never did." Lestrade said grimly, accelerating to a speed that John was not comfortable with. "Plenty of bad things could happen to him without you there. He gets reckless."

John made a noncommittal sound, though these thoughts were close to his own, and read another message from Sherlock that had Lestrade spinning the steering wheel and sending the car into a 180 degree turn, slamming John into the passenger door.

"_Jesus_," John breathed, unsure if he was praying or just in shock.

"There_- just there_!" John cried out when he finally spotted Sherlock, coat flying behind him, dashing past the end of an alleyway as he and Lestrade zoomed past it.

Lestrade growled another curse and accelerated to a speed that threw John back against the seat and tore a shaky laugh from his throat as the adrenaline kicked in. They squealed around another corner, bounced over a divider, and skidded to a stop at the end of a narrow alley.

Lestrade had only just thrown open his door when the man Sherlock had been pursuing raced towards them, saw the police car blocking his path, and attempted to turn round- only to be tackled by a flying leap from Sherlock.

Lestrade hurried to arrest the suspect, and Sherlock eased away, breathing hard from the run, his hair rumpled, cheeks reddened. He glanced to where John was struggling to get out of the car and gave him a huge grin before walking over.

When John finally got out of the police car, he had to lean against it before his knees would stop shaking and support him. He bowed his head, sucking in steadying breaths, and feeling strangely giddy.

"I am never riding in a car with Lestrade again," he vowed, catching Sherlock's eye to find him grinning in elation.

"That was brilliant, John." He said, breathlessly, his eyes shining. "_Brilliant_."

John looked up at him, high from the case, chase, and the mad car ride with Lestrade, and chuckled before laughing full out, finding the entire situation hilarious. After a moment, Sherlock's deep laugh joined his and they leaned against Lestrade's car, laughing and watching as Lestrade, shooting them a disgruntled look, bundled the suspect into the back of an arriving car.

John was wiping actual tears of mirth from his eyes when Sherlock leaned forward and captured his smiling lips in a brief, chaste kiss. It was over in an instant but when Sherlock pulled away, John was breathless and Sherlock looked very stunned.

Sherlock stepped away and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, looking everywhere but at John. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"I am glad you are back and working on cases, John." He said, stiffly and began walking away towards the main road. "I will hail a cab."

John stared after him, unaware they had attracted the attention of every officer present. His heart was thundering in his chest and had nothing to do with the earlier excitement of the case and everything to do with the tall man walking away from him.

"I didn't know the two of you were…together." Lestrade said awkwardly, his eyes questioning as he looked from Sherlock and back to John.

John shook his head. "Yeah. Yeah, me neither."

* * *

"Sebastian Moran, sir. He was James Moriarty's right hand man."

Mycroft stared at the frozen video screen and the image of the man there. He was tall, well over six foot, with close cropped blonde hair, and dark, hooded eyes. Mycroft memorized the face and turned to his assistant.

"Why was I not informed of this sooner?" His voice was ice and his assistant almost visibly flinched.

"We were not aware of him, sir. Moriarty kept his existence closely guarded. He used him as a sort of assassin-"

"And who is his target now?" Mycroft asked, though he knew the answer as he turned back to look at the screen.

"John Watson, sir."

* * *

**Please don't kill me! :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Whew. This is the longest chapter I have ever, ever written. Any mistakes are my own :)**

**Enjoy! :D Leave reviews!**

* * *

Sherlock reprimanded himself during the cab ride from the crime scene (Sherlock deduced that the man had murdered the woman but the burglaries were not connected, just as he thought). He _should not_ have kissed John so suddenly, without warning, not to mention _in public_. John had obviously been shocked and it had not been according to Sherlock's strategy at all. He had planned to gradually work up to kissing John after explaining that they should be in a relationship together and only kiss him when he, Sherlock, was in a position that was non-threatening to John. He had observed that John was uncomfortable when people loomed over him and such actions were likely to inspire a panic attack or flashback. Sherlock was obviously much taller than John and could not help but loom over him on some occasions. He had therefore decided that when he kissed John, he would either sit down or lean against something in order to make himself lower and therefore appear less threatening.

It had been foolish and rash and completely out of character for Sherlock to have kissed John so quickly after the case. It could have induced a panic attack- in front of everyone which Sherlock was sure John would have hated. But John had been standing there, laughing and smiling up at him, and Sherlock had thought- no, he _had not thought at all_, Sherlock realized disgustedly. He had merely acted, acted without thought or reason, and had run the risk of scaring John. It was pathetic and stupid and Sherlock believed it made him the worst sort of moron.

Now, John sat beside him in the back of the cab, silent and staring straight ahead but he kept sneaking glances at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock would not notice. Sherlock had noticed, and he was currently doing the same thing to John, deducing John's emotions and his mental state. John, surprisingly, seemed…very much ok. He was confused, as evidenced by his posture and the lines about his nose and eyes, but Sherlock decided that was to be expected when his flat mate suddenly took to kissing him without warning. Sherlock visibly relaxed and John took this as a sign to start asking questions.

"What was that?"

Sherlock smirked. Trust John to ask the obvious. "A kiss."

John did not laugh. "Why did you kiss me?"

"I wanted to."

"Why?"

Sherlock looked over at John, deduced that he was genuinely curious, then quickly looked away. "You did very well on the case today, John."

"Thanks. So, that was…a _reward_ for a job well done then?" Sherlock could hear the puzzlement in John's voice and he sighed.

"No." he said shortly, looking again at John and refusing to be swayed by John's adorable 'confused' face. "I…have feelings for you, John."

There was silence from the other side of the cab and Sherlock darted a glance over John's face to make sure he was not panicking. His earlier deductions had told him John was fine, but that could change in a moment. He did not want his actions to be the cause of John experiencing a set-back.

"And these feelings…made you want to kiss me?" John asked slowly, eyes boring into Sherlock's. Sherlock refrained from rolling his own eyes in exasperation. John was making this rather difficult. It was not a hard concept.

"Yes."

John sucked in a surprised breath and stared at Sherlock who held his gaze, wondering how John would respond. He had deduced weeks ago that John would probably respond positively and agree to be in a romantic relationship with him…but John always surprised Sherlock. It was one of the many, endlessly fascinating things about John that Sherlock enjoyed. Now, Sherlock hoped John would be mundane and predictable.

"Right. Ok." John cleared his throat and his eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips. "Maybe you should tell me exactly what these feelings are so I don't get confused."

He dragged his gaze back up to Sherlock's eyes and John's thoughts stuttered and died. Sherlock's pupils were dilated dramatically and John was suddenly aware how close they were sitting in the back of the cab. His pulse accelerated as Sherlock's own eyes drifted to stare at his mouth. John drew in a shaky breath and started to lean forward.

"221B Baker Street." The cabbie rudely called out, not wanting the two blokes to start snogging in his backseat. He had had a couple last week who had almost completely disrobed before he had managed to get their attention and throw them out. He shook his head as the two men exited the cab, the taller man bounding up the stairs and leaving the shorter man to hobble after him. Occupational hazard of being a cabbie, he thought, pulling away from the curb angrily.

* * *

John sat opposite Sherlock in his armchair; his foot propped on the footstool, and repeated his question from the cab. Sherlock sat nonchalantly in his own armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, legs crossed. John thought he looked much too calm considering the subject they were discussing. John felt nervous and like he was about to climb out of his skin.

"I want to be in a romantic relationship with you, John." Sherlock's voice was steady and self-assured. John felt envious.

"A what?" His own voice came out a bit breathy and shaky but he blamed this entirely on shock from not only the unexpected kiss earlier but the sudden sexual tension between himself and Sherlock- oh, and the fact that Sherlock had just told him he wanted to be in a romantic relationship with him.

Sherlock frowned. "A relationship of a romantic nature. I am aware that we are considered best friends, and I…greatly esteem our friendship however…recent developments have made me aware that I no longer wish to simply remain friends with you. My feelings are of a more much quixotic nature and I find myself wanting to…take our relationship to the next level." Sherlock was rather proud of this speech. He had rehearsed it over and over in his head and deduced that there was a 90% chance that John would have a positive reaction to it.

"Ok, wait. Hang on." John held up a hand. Sherlock frowned a bit. John had never reacted this way in his head. "I don't…you're sure you have these feelings for me? Since when?"

"Since before you left. I was aware of them since the pool incident, though they had been there before that moment. I realized these feelings existed but did not pursue them nor attempt to persuade you to stop dating those women-"

"That's debatable." John muttered and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to argue before he remembered he was attempting to persuade John to be in a romantic relationship with him and closed his mouth, forcing a painful smile that John actually laughed at.

"Perhaps I was a bit passive-aggressive towards the women; however, my actions were motivated by the desire to keep you by my side."

"Romantically."

"Yes."

John sighed, sat back in his chair, and regarded Sherlock with a closed-off expression. Sherlock could still deduce what he was thinking and this time he did roll his eyes.

"This is not an experiment, John. I am perfectly in earnest."

Something in John's posture relaxed and he looked away, smiling a bit. "So you're….what? In love with me?"

Sherlock could see the glimmer of hope in John's eyes when he said the last but he could not keep the grimace from his face and John noticed. He frowned, blushed, and looked away.

"Ok, so I got that wrong. Listen, why don't you tell me _exactly_ how you feel so I know for sure and don't misunderstand you. Right now I'm confused as hell as to what you mean." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and avoided Sherlock's gaze, embarrassed, thinking he had deduced Sherlock's feelings wrongly. Although, John thought savagely, what was he supposed to think when the man told him he wanted to be in a _romantic_ relationship with him?

Sherlock hesitated before sliding out of his armchair and kneeling between John's spread legs. John's breathing hitched at the sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him. He gripped the arms of the chair and reminded himself not to be the world's biggest pervert. Insistent parts of his anatomy refused to listen, however, and responded enthusiastically to Sherlock's close proximity. When Sherlock began speaking in his deep, intoxicating voice, John could not help shuddering as the words reverberated throughout his body.

"I have an enduring…mind-altering…all-consuming…deep-seated _passion_ for you, John Watson. You are endlessly fascinating to me and I want to know why. I want to peel back every layer you possess, both inside and out, and discover every secret you have and when I reach the heart that is wholly John Watson, I want to bury myself there and live there forever because I can think of no place better. I can imagine my life without you because I have already lived it and I never want to feel that way again. I want you beside me for the rest of my life. I want you, John, I want you in every way you can _possibly_ conceive that statement to mean."

John was still gasping for breath, his heart rate so accelerated he felt light-headed from Sherlock's speech, when Sherlock cocked his head to the side and looked up at him with all-knowing eyes and John's stomach dropped.

"Do you feel the same way for me?"

_Of course_ he felt the same way for Sherlock. John loved him. He had felt that way since the moment he had met the strange man in the lab at St. Bart's and decided to be his flat mate. John had lusted for Sherlock from afar, spent useless hours dreaming about being with Sherlock, and had desperately wanted to confess his love for Sherlock before he died. He had not thought Sherlock had felt the same way- married to his work, self-confessed sociopath, reserved Sherlock love normal John Watson? Impossible. It seemed too amazing to be true.

_Of course_ John loved Sherlock.

It seemed unfair to Sherlock, though, to start a relationship now. It was why John had been holding himself back since he had been rescued. Why should he attempt to tell Sherlock he loved him, start a relationship with him when there was the distinct possibility that John would wake up and pummel Sherlock while he slept? Have a panic attack when Sherlock kissed him? It was sometimes there- that choking feeling when Sherlock stood over him, always so bloody tall. John felt trapped and the panic began. It was irrational- Sherlock would not hurt him- but there was no controlling it, just as there had been no controlling it on that first morning when he had woken in Sherlock's arms and lost it. It seemed hopeless.

"I'm a complete wreck, Sherlock." John's voice was firm with conviction. "You know it, I know it, the whole damn world knows it. I can't even sleep in a bedroom by myself without having a bloody panic attack. I'm afraid of the damn dark. I have panic attacks over the smallest things, flashbacks, bloody nightmares that make me react violently." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not stable. I'm not the same person I was before…before I left. It's not fair to you-"

"I am aware of everything, John. It makes no difference to me. I still want you if that is what you are getting at. I want you, John Hamish Watson. That is not the question. _Do you want me_?"

John sighed and, despite the voice that was telling him not to, raised his hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock closed his eyes at the contact, his lips parting and John's heart began pounding again. _Oh God, yes_. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted the man in front of him so badly it made his heart ache.

He leaned down, rested his forehead against Sherlock's and closed his eyes, wanting this, wanting to close the small distance and start kissing Sherlock again _so damn badly_. Sherlock remained passive beneath him, not pushing or grabbing, allowing John to make the decision.

John felt so unworthy, dirty, damaged, and disgusting. Why would Sherlock want him? Why would he want a _romantic_ relationship with John? John was still a bit surprised that Sherlock was still his friend considering how fucked up he currently was. Sherlock was not an ignorant man- he was brilliant, a genius- mad, yes, but so intelligent that sometimes it was scary. And John trusted him. He would trust Sherlock with his life. If Sherlock said he harbored a passion for John and that it was not an experiment…John believed him.

He thought about the concern Sherlock showed, the various ways he showed John that he thought of him. Opening the curtains of a morning so the sunshine would be the first thing John saw and felt, tenderly wrapping his cast- although at this point John could do it himself, Sherlock insisted-, holding his hand after John punched him, pressing his body against John's to instill comfort, always making sure John ate, playing John's favorite music on the violin...crying as he smelled John's hair, kissing his cheek so sweetly, the way he smiled at John, said he was brilliant.

Finally, John took a deep breath, raised his head and, cupping Sherlock's cheeks in both his hands, leaned down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock drew in a shaky breath at the contact and John felt every muscle below his waist tighten in pleasure.

"Of course I want you," he whispered against Sherlock's lips and felt the man shudder. "I don't know why the hell you want me but…if you really want this, I'll give it to you. I've always wanted you."

Sherlock's answering smile was purely self-satisfactory. "I deduced that long ago." He said smugly and John chuckled, tugging Sherlock's hair so he could tip his head back and kiss him again.

* * *

"I see you and Doctor Watson have become…closer."

Sherlock stared passively back at Mycroft, determined to win the usual battle of wits with his brother. It was easier since John was currently downstairs with Mrs. Hudson and the delicious smells of cooking wafted up the stairs. Sherlock was eager to discover what Mycroft wanted and return downstairs to watch John cook while wearing Mrs. Hudson's flowered orange apron. Their relationship had only been hours old when Mycroft had unexpectedly arrived and asked for a private word. Sherlock had pouted like a child and flounced upstairs. Now he sat, calmly staring at his brother and mentally urging him to hurry.

"Mrs. Hudson is not baking cake, Mycroft, so I am puzzled as to why you stopped by."

Mycroft glanced behind him to make sure they were still alone and then sat in John's armchair. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in displeasure, though he refrained from saying anything. He would not give Mycroft that pleasure.

"I did not stop by to trade witty barbs with you, Sherlock. This is a matter of some importance so please grow up for a few moments." Mycroft said sharply, surprising Sherlock.

His eyes immediately sharpened and zoomed about Mycroft's face in order to deduce what was so important for Mycroft to get snippy but Mycroft began speaking before Sherlock could make any deductions.

"Sebastian Moran. Do you recognize him?" Mycroft handed Sherlock a manila folder containing a single printed-out photograph, the detail perfect. Sherlock memorized the face but shook his head.

"He was James Moriarty's right hand man, as assassin, the very best available. He was a former soldier, a sharp-shooter of exceptional skill. He has hundreds of kills to his credit and has made quite a name for himself."

"You want me to find him." Sherlock said dryly, looking back at the photograph.

"There is no need. We know where he is already."

Sherlock's eyes flew up to look at Mycroft and his brother looked very grave.

"It seems that Moriarty left instruction for Moran to kill John Watson in the event that Moriarty himself were killed, or if John happened to escape. Since both events have occurred, he has been following John throughout London. We were not aware of his presence until recently. He has not yet made his move, but it must be soon."

Sherlock heard a ringing in his ears as he continued to calmly stare at the picture of the man whose job it was to kill John Watson. Mycroft saw that his brother was clearly distressed, though any outsider would think he was perfectly indifferent to the situation. He had been unable to prevent John Watson being injured last time. Mycroft had promised himself that if at all possible, he would protect John Watson this time. He leveled a reassuring look at Sherlock.

"We will not allow him to succeed. We have a plan."

* * *

Sherlock stood and stared at the front door Mycroft had just left through, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. His mind was racing with information, plans, and underneath it all was a screaming fear, the fear of losing John all over again. He stood at the door for long minutes, simply staring at nothing, lost in his mind, before John's loud laughter jerked him out of his reverie and he slowly turned and walked into Mrs. Hudson's flat.

He followed the sounds of laughter and the banging of pots and pans. Sherlock stood in the kitchen door and silently stared at John and Mrs. Hudson as they moved about her small kitchen cooking. John murmured something to Mrs. Hudson and she threw back her head, laughing, and flicked John teasingly with a dishtowel. He neatly dodged and laughed at her, the expression transporting his tired face into something boyish and young, carefree, and Sherlock felt pain lance his heart.

John turned at that moment and caught Sherlock looking and grinned at him, though his smile faltered when he saw how serious and grave Sherlock looked.

"What? What is it?" he asked, and Mrs. Hudson turned, the smile dying from her face as well. The kitchen went silent as they looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock made the quick decision that he would not tell John. Not yet. Mycroft said he was handling the situation and, though Sherlock did not want to trust his brother, he believed he would. Sherlock would also be protecting John. What good would it do to tell John? It would make him fearful, worried, anxious, and provoke more nightmares and flashbacks than he currently had.

Sherlock was an accomplished actor and he smiled easily and moved further into the kitchen, his hands in his pockets.

"My brother always puts me in a bad mood. Always wanting me to take the shadiest of cases. I told him to bugger off." He said, frowning a bit and John rolled his eyes and smiled back at him. Sherlock sank down onto one of the kitchen chairs and extended his hand to John. He ever-so-gently tugged John over to him and John smiled, as if unable to believe this was happening, and bent to place a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Will you eat with us since you're not on a case?" he asked, straightening and turning around to stir a bubbling pot on the stove.

"I suppose," Sherlock said and looked over to catch Mrs. Hudson's eye. She looked unconvinced and worried and the two of them shared a grave look before Mrs. Hudson turned back to cooking, her brow slightly furrowed.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	19. Chapter 19

**Ok, so THIS is officially the longest chapter ever! If there are any mistakes they are all my own since I do not have a beta. I have read this over 3 times so...hopefully I got them all. **

**12/30/2012- I edited this chapter, added a few sentences here and there, and overall I am much, much happier with it! Enjoy!  
**

**This is shameless Johnlock. **  
**Enjoy :D**

* * *

Sherlock had already given a great deal of thought to the mechanics of how he and John would be sexually intimate. Sherlock already knew that it was a good idea to place himself on a level below John and not tower over him with his height. Obviously, John would need to be totally in charge or it was possible another panic attack would occur. Grabbing or clutching at John, or encircling John with his arms would also likely provoke a negative reaction. If he made John feel in any way trapped or inferior, he would react with fear and panic. Sherlock knew the warning signs of an impending attack and would obviously have to monitor his every move around John to prevent any.

Sherlock was prepared to take things as slowly as possible. He was aware that John may not have normal reactions to sexual activities after enduring what he had. He also knew that John was not as sexually responsive as he had once been since his rescue from Moriarty but his therapist had told John he would recover this aspect of his life as he recovered mentally. Sherlock had noticed John's obvious arousal earlier that day when he had knelt before him but it was possible that had been an aberration, although it was also possible it had not been. The uncertainty of it made it imperative to take things as slowly as possible or else John may feel overwhelmed, thereby inducing a panic attack. It may be months or even a year before John would feel comfortable having any sort of sexual relations with Sherlock and he was prepared to wait that long.

All these thoughts were running through Sherlock's head as he surreptitiously watched John get ready for bed. He did not feel badly about doing this since he and John were now in a relationship, they were a couple. He had already seen John's body before, sneaking glances as John got in or out of the shower, changed clothes when he thought Sherlock was not looking. Now, Sherlock could lie in their bed and look at his leisure. He wondered, as John tugged his shirt over his head, if his scar had a different flavor than the rest of his skin. Sherlock made a mental note to find out one day.

John gave him a quick look before climbing into bed and they lay on their backs beside each other. John lay stiffly, staring up at the ceiling, and Sherlock was reminded of that first night he had climbed into bed with John. He supposed John might be a bit concerned that Sherlock would start demanding sex since they were in a relationship- that was what normal people did, Sherlock knew- and he had just opened his mouth to assure John this was not the case when-

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Is your….you said you wanted to be in a romantic relationship with me." John cleared his throat and shifted. Sherlock frowned, confused and not liking it.

"Yes."

"Does that mean…I wondered…Look, don't take this the wrong way because if you don't want to do…do anything I understand. I'd be pretty damn happy in any relationship with you- even one without…without- what I'm trying to say, Sherlock-"

Sherlock understood what John was trying to say in a sudden flash. His body went cold then suddenly very, very hot and he had to swallow three times before he could speak again.

"John. I want you in every possible way you could conceive that statement to mean."

Sherlock listened as John drew in a shaky breath and the covers shifted as he fisted the sheets in his hands.

"Right."

There was silence and Sherlock tried to deduce what John was thinking without moving his head, straining his eyes to the side but it was too dark to tell. He swallowed thickly and felt his pulse, heavy and thudding, in his neck pick up.

"Fuck it," he heard John murmur before he turned and reached for Sherlock, gently tipping his head to the side, and kissing Sherlock with much more force than earlier that day. Sherlock responded with relief, carefully turning his body so he lay on his side, thus making it much easier to kiss John and keeping John in a position of power.

As they kissed, John ran his hand down Sherlock's side, up and down, until finally settling on Sherlock's hip and he felt it through his bottoms like a delicious, heavy weight. Sherlock suppressed the urge to press closer to John, bring his own arm up and drag John nearer, but it took more willpower than Sherlock had thought.

"_Stop thinking_," John whispered, pulling back to start kissing Sherlock's chin, moving down to place kisses against his throat, earning a small moan from Sherlock who slowly and cautiously placed his hand on John's hip, mirroring John's position. John hummed happily at the contact and licked a line up Sherlock's throat and then brought their lips together again.

Sherlock's tongue tentatively licked at the corner of John's mouth and John moaned and opened his lips, allowing Sherlock access but Sherlock remained at a slow pace. He traced John's lips with the tip of his tongue, eliciting shudders and gasps, before returning and gently pressing John's lips with his own. John licked at Sherlock's closed lips until he opened them, then he thrust his tongue inside to tangle with Sherlock's, learning the feel of the other man's mouth with delicious sounds and quivers.

John tugged at Sherlock's hip, wanting to feel Sherlock pressed against him. Sherlock was slow to respond and only shifted fractionally forward. John realized something was wrong and pulled back, worried.

"Too much?" John asked, squeezing the hand he still had on Sherlock's hip. Sherlock gave him an indecipherable look before shaking his head and scooting closer. John did as well and cursed, his eyes fluttering closed, when their hips, and erections, touched. Sherlock was obviously aroused and John could feel himself throbbing in his pants. He had not experienced a sexual response for so long everything seemed heightened, urgent, and demanding.

He thought about stripping off the few layers between them, pinning Sherlock to the bed, and ravaging him, hard and fast. This made him pause. John realized he didn't know how much experience Sherlock had with sex- was he really a virgin? Did he know more than John about sex? It was this uncertainty that made John stop.

John swallowed and tried to control himself, pulling slightly away from Sherlock, whose eyes snapped open immediately and swept about John's face.

"S-sorry," John said, shakily. "I- I think we need to stop."

Sherlock immediately pulled away from him, still lying on his side, and John almost came in his pants at the look Sherlock gave him. He bit his lip and stifled an undignified groan.

"Have you ever…ever done this before?" John asked hesitantly, trailing his hand over Sherlock's hip one more time before moving away.

Sherlock shrugged, not an easy feat when one was lying on one's side in bed, but he somehow made it look elegant. "A few experiments, nothing serious. I have never been in a romantically inclined relationship before. I have engaged in sexual relations before, though, if that is what you were asking."

"Uh, yeah, yeah that was what I was asking." John said, breathing deeply and allowing his arousal to fade away with each heartbeat. He tried to suppress his curiosity at Sherlock's past but Sherlock seemed to read his mind, though, and rolled his eyes.

"Both men and women, John, and no one of any importance. There were no lasting relationships. When I say experiments I mean that in a literal term. I wanted to know my reaction to different forms of stimuli and found some forms much more interesting and pleasurable than others. I like men. I like this man in particular." He leered at John and John laughed, the tension easing away.

John rolled onto his stomach beside Sherlock, his body pressed nicely against Sherlock's side, and felt himself relaxing, the sexual tension ebbing away the longer he lay beside Sherlock. He was just beginning to drift off to sleep when he felt Sherlock's fingers trail down his spine, goose bumps following in their wake, and John laughed lightly, squirming at the contact. He pulled himself up on his elbows to look down at Sherlock who smiled up at him, an innocent, content smile that went straight to John's heart.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

John brushed a few stray curls off Sherlock's forehead and kissed him, a brief, unhurried kiss and pulled away smiling.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

* * *

The next few days were some of the best of John's life and passed in a pleasurable, sexual tension-filled blur. Now that he and Sherlock were a couple, they kissed at every opportunity, cuddled on the sofa, and slept side by side…but John was hesitant to take their snogging into sexual territory. It had nothing to do with Sherlock and everything to do with John. Sometimes his arousal was a no-show when they snogged, which didn't seem to be a problem for Sherlock (John did not delude himself into thinking Sherlock didn't notice) but deeply unsettled John. He knew it was a natural reaction as his body came back online and his mental state became better, but it was still disturbing to _want_ to be hard and unable to be so.

He was also concerned about what Sherlock would think of him naked. His body was admittedly changed since he had returned. There was less muscle definition and he was still a bit skinny. What if Sherlock saw his body, the scars- and his keen, deducing eyes picked up on everything- and was totally turned off by what he saw? John figured he was being stupid but…the thoughts still lingered.

The one dull spot was Sherlock's odd insistent that John not leave the flat for any reason- including his physical therapy sessions and his psychiatrist appointments. John argued, but was placated by the missed episodes of Doctor Who Sherlock bribed him with. Sherlock's excuse that he wanted to keep John to himself for a few days was sweet...but there was something suspicious about it and very un-Sherlock that John decided to investigate later…when he had caught up with the Doctor.

* * *

It was a pretty, sunny day and John was bored.

He had finished watching the episodes of Doctor Who and was all alone in the living room. Sherlock was upstairs in John's former bedroom experimenting. He had flounced upstairs after calling John an idiot when John had said he wanted leave the flat for a brief walk. Sherlock had insisted that John needed "rest." John had cursed and said he had had enough "bloody rest." Sherlock had then declared he would not help John down the stairs and took himself away to his lab.

John had debated on whether or not to take this as a challenge but decided not to attempt the stairs on his own again. He was sure Sherlock would be angry if he broke his neck trying to prove a point. John did not relish the idea, anyway.

He had watched telly for a bit, puttered around the immaculately clean kitchen- the benefit of the lab being upstairs- but soon grew bored, and cast around for something to do. Since leaving the flat was out, and his petulant...flat mate...partner...boyfriend? was upstairs pouting, there was little to do. Finally, as John stared blankly around their bedroom for something to do, he decided to move his belongings into Sherlock's closet. He had been meaning to do it for a while now but put off the dull task in favor of better things- like snogging. He had been simply folding his clothes and putting them in the dresser- Sherlock had cleared out two drawers for him- but John was starting to get tired of either wearing wrinkled clothes or ironing them. He did not think Sherlock would mind. They were a couple now, they were already sharing the bedroom and the bed. It was only logical they share a closet too.

John opened the closet, scanned the contents and shook his head at how…_organized_ it was. Sherlock's sock index was nothing compared to this. He briefly thought about not bothering anything and letting Sherlock do it so as not to disturb the obvious order of everything…but then he remembered Sherlock calling him an idiot and began shifting Sherlock's things all to one side, not bothering to keep them in order.

When there was enough room, John limped over to the dresser and brought the entire drawer of shirts with him. He placed them on the floor and was reaching for the first one when he noticed a plastic garment bag, the kind that usually was hung up to keep garments crisp and fresh and clean. He frowned as he bent to retrieve it, thinking he must have knocked it down while he was savagely moving Sherlock's clothes. It was heavy and bulky and John sighed as he realized he must have dislodged the garment from its hanger. He unzipped the bag and froze in shock.

John stared at the red woolen jumper in his hands, running his fingers over the material as if trying to make sense of what he held. It was _his_. He knew it was his, though it had been so long since he had seen it. He distinctly remembered wearing it on multiple occasions- Christmas parties at 221B, chasing a criminal once or twice. It was _his jumper_, neatly stored in a plastic garment bag at the bottom of Sherlock's closet. Why had Sherlock kept it? Sentiment? Had the one jumper somehow accidentally wound up in Sherlock's closet and John was making it a big deal?

No, there were more. Several more jumpers were in the bag and John spotted another garment bag lying nearby. He glanced behind him to make sure Sherlock was not around before he reached and opened that one, revealing more of his jumpers, perfectly preserved. He gently touched them, as if he were afraid they would disappear. It was so _surreal_. The last thing he had expected to find in Sherlock's immaculate closet were his old jumpers. Sherlock…why had he kept them? He had hated John's jumpers, always mocking him for wearing them and wrinkling his nose in disgust at the more lurid ones.

John ran his hands over them, frowning, then decided to go get answers.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

There was no answer from upstairs but John knew Sherlock could hear him- the door to his lab was noticeably open. He waited then called again. Still no answer. Sherlock was obviously pouting from their small row earlier.

"Why did you keep my jumpers?" John yelled up, gesturing with the red jumper still clutched in his fist.

The sound of breaking glass made John jump and he heard Sherlock curse. There were footsteps and John imagined Sherlock hurriedly cleaning up whatever mess he had made. Minutes ticked by and still Sherlock did not appear at the top of the stairs to explain. John shifted his position, taking more weight off his almost healed ankle and shouted up again.

"Sherlock?"

"_What_, John?" Irritated. John imagined Sherlock's frowning face. He hated to be disturbed in the middle of an experiment.

"Why?"

There was silence "Experiments, John." The cold reply was calm, unemotional. John felt it like a punch to his stomach.

"Oh." John nodded, staring down at the red jumper he held. "Right."

John turned and walked away, wondering why he felt so hollow inside. _Of course _it had been for an experiment. It made sense, fit in with what he knew of Sherlock. It was so obvious that was what Sherlock had been doing. No doubt the wool jumpers would have tested acid rates or something. John felt silly for making it such a big deal-

"_John_!"

John looked up in time to see Sherlock skid around the doorway from John's old bedroom and quickly run down the stairs. He stopped barely a foot away from John, his eyes burning and John frowned until he realized what he was about to do. Sherlock saw the realization dawn in John's eyes and that was when he moved, pressing his lips to John's gently.

John closed his eyes in acceptance as Sherlock pressed soft kisses to his lips, gently coaxing John to respond, which he did with a small lack of enthusiasm.

Sherlock pulled away and began to talk while still kissing John, his lips moving over John's face and neck. His voice- each word spoken- made something low and pleasant jerk in John's abdomen.

"I- _kiss_- kept- _kiss_- the jumpers-_kiss_-because they- _kiss_- smelled-_kiss_- like you-"Here Sherlock buried his face in John's hair and inhaled deeply before running his nose from John's scalp down his neck and kissing him where his neck met his shoulder. John muffled a tiny groan.

"No- _kiss_- experiment. I swear-_kiss_" and Sherlock moved up to kiss John's lips again, and this time John responded with eagerness, reaching up and running his hands through Sherlock's hair, pulling him closer. Sherlock stepped closer but his arms still remained at his sides, and John wondered why. He moved his hands from Sherlock's hair and placed them around his back, fisting Sherlock's shirt in his hands, tugging again, wanting to feel Sherlock against him. Sherlock always kept a distance between them when they were not in bed together and John was beginning to find it irritating.

He felt Sherlock resist briefly before allowing himself to step closer, pressing against John, trapping him between the wall and Sherlock's body. John was hard, wanting, and he could feel Sherlock's erection pressing against his hip. John thrust forward, rejoicing in the groan that tore from Sherlock's lips. Sherlock thrust back and it was John's turn to groan in exquisite ecstasy. He rubbed himself against Sherlock, giddy from the thought of Sherlock keeping his jumpers to smell them.

He tugged at Sherlock again and he fell closer to John, his hands came up to brace himself to either side of John's head and John's throat closed up.

He tried to concentrate on the feeling of Sherlock's lips sliding over his, the rush of excitement that coursed through him. He was still hard and thrust against Sherlock again and again, trying to only think of how Sherlock was responding, the breathless little moans he was uttering, the way his hips rolled so erotically against his own.

The feeling of helplessness, the panic, was growing stronger, and John was trying desperately to fight it off. His accelerated breathing was obviously being mistaken for arousal by Sherlock and he was grateful for that. He thrust against Sherlock again, and Sherlock moaned, dipping his head to nip gently at John's neck. Both his panic and arousal spiked and John groaned, torn, trying to will the panic away and focus only on the arousal.

He placed his hands on Sherlock's chest, just rested them there in the hope that would make him feel better, more in control- but the fear kept rising. _Fear of what_? Sherlock would not hurt him, was being very…gentle with him. It was hot as hell what Sherlock was doing to him- he _wanted_ this. _God, how he wanted this_!

John could feel the trembling starting, the overwhelming fear sucking all the air from his lungs, and his heart felt as if it were about to beat out of his chest. Sherlock raised his head and looked at John and John knew that Sherlock knew.

As John pushed Sherlock away he felt like crying in frustration and shame, but he kept his eyes closed, trying to relearn how to breathe and control the shaking that had started in his limbs. Sherlock was quite as he stood in front of him, breathing heavily, not pushing, just staring.

When John finally felt better, he opened his eyes to find Sherlock still there, frowning slightly as he stared at John.

"I'm…sorry," John said, his voice hoarse and he stared at the floor, wanting it to swallow him. Why had he _ever_ thought this was a good idea? He could not even snog Sherlock in the hallway without-

"_John_." Sherlock hooked one of his fingers around John's and slowly pulled him back, away from the wall and towards the sofa. He sank down onto the arm of the sofa and looked up at him.

"Is this better?" Sherlock's eyes were wide, cautious, and full of the emotion that existed between them that Sherlock refused to call love.

John smiled weakly and tugged at Sherlock's curls, about to call the whole thing off, it was pointless-

Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and kissed John's penis through his trousers. John's back stiffened and he gasped in surprise, his arousal returning with such force that he thrust forward without thinking.

"_Jesus_, Sherlock," he choked, staring down at the smug man who rolled his eyes up to stare at John as he gently bit his erection through his trousers.

John was not sure if the noise he made next was totally human or not.

He pushed Sherlock back onto the sofa and followed over the arm after him, straddling Sherlock's hips and leaning down to snog him senseless. Well, trying to. He did not think Sherlock would ever be senseless no matter what he did. John was eager to discover if he would be or not, though.

Sherlock managed to remove John's button-down shirt and was given permission by a confused but excited John to leave bright red love bites all over his chest. John finally pushed him away with an agonized groan so he could throw Sherlock's shirt away and, his eyes darkening with desire, reached out to run his hand down the pale perfection of Sherlock's chest.

John stopped and stared at the sharp contrast of his twisted fingers against Sherlock's unblemished chest. It looked grotesque and John felt his excitement swiftly fading.

Sherlock felt the change and his eyes popped open, immediately deducing what was wrong. He caught John's hand before he could move away and refused to let go as John tried to tug his hand away.

Without saying a word, Sherlock brought John's hand up to his mouth and ,licking his lips, touched the tip of his tongue to John's broken index finger on his left hand. John sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide, as Sherlock swirled his tongue around the top of the finger and then slowly, never breaking eye contact with John, sucked the finger into his mouth, his tongue wrapping around it like velvet.

John's heart may have stopped beating at that point- he was unsure- but he _was_ sure he was about to die when Sherlock, slowly pulling that finger out, repeated the process with the one beside it, then the other one. John watched with open-mouthed fascination, so hard he was almost positive he would come before Sherlock was done.

When Sherlock's teeth grazed the ring finger on its way out of his mouth, John shivered and his hips thrust forward involuntarily. Sherlock's eyes darkened even further and he smiled around the finger he was sucking.

When he released John's hand from his mouth, Sherlock guided it down his neck, over his collarbone, and to his chest. John took over a bit, gently scratching Sherlock's chest as he continued to draw his hand down and Sherlock arched slightly beneath him.

"_Yes_," he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"What do you want?" John asked, before closing his mouth around one nipple, reveling in the guttural groan Sherlock made.

"You," Sherlock gasped, his spine arching. "I want you."

"Oh, god, yes."

* * *

John, his head resting on Sherlock's chest, enjoying the feeling of his body tingling all over, traced the bruise that was forming on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed.

"I'm sorry-"

"Hush, John, no reason to be. I was merely not expecting you to throw me to the floor with such force. I will be prepared next time." Laughter rumbled in Sherlock's chest and John found himself laughing along with him, completely blissed out and happy.

* * *

**I live on reviews! Please leave them! :D**


	20. Chapter 20

Mycroft steepled his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall opposite him, his thoughts far away from the plush government office he sat in. He did not notice as the sun set and darkness descended outside. There were no lights on in his office and only the weak light from outside filtered in, casting everything into shadow. He sighed deeply, his mind operating at maximum capacity, trying to discover the solution to the problem he found himself mired in. Every possibility was examined, dissected, and weighed before being tossed aside.

There was only one solution remaining.

Mycroft sighed again and stood. He slowly walked around his desk to his decanter, feeling years older than he was. His feet dragged on the carpet as he walked to the window, drink clutched in his hand, and he leaned his forehead against the cool glass.

He had told Sherlock of his original plan- to flush Sebastian Moran out of hiding and protect John- but a week later there were still no results. John could not be kept an unknowing prisoner in 221B indefinitely. A dangerous criminal like Sebastian Moran could not be allowed to continue to operate in London with no one holding his leash. He was dangerous, a true psychopath, and only Moriarty, whose depravity had rivaled Moran's, could have controlled him. With that control eliminated, Mycroft felt edgy, knew he had to act soon to eliminate the danger that Moran posed.

He had gained intelligence that Moran was entertaining offers from clients for other assassinations. He was not yet taking jobs- all intelligence that Mycroft could gain about Moran pointed to the fact that he always completed one job before starting another- but the fact that Moran would eventually be marking those in power was a deadly threat.

Mycroft's brilliant, top-secret team of special ops had been unable to bring Moran in. They had been so close to catching him- but he had inexplicably slipped through their fingers. Mycroft's impotent rage had been terrible. He had promised his brother he would protect John Watson, he wanted to protect John for his own mental well-being.

He sighed and his breath fogged up the glass, obscuring the night. Somewhere in the night, somewhere in London, Sebastian Moran was preparing to kill John Watson. Once that was accomplished, he would move on to bigger and better things.

Mycroft pulled away, and strode back to his desk, his decision made. Now, he only had to live with it.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

John limped into the main room, scanning that room and the kitchen for his…his boyfriend. The word, even in his mind, made him blush just a bit because…well, who would have ever actually thought- him and Sherlock? He grinned goofily and went to the bottom of the stairs, thinking Sherlock may be in his lab.

"Sherlock? Are you up there?"

There was still no answer and John frowned. He had woken that morning to bright sunshine and no Sherlock. There had been no note and he knew Sherlock had mentioned nothing to him that he was going out.

John had just turned around to limp towards the kitchen- perhaps Sherlock had left a note in the microwave- when Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice called up the stairs.

"John! There you are!" She beamed at him as she slowly walked up the stairs, favoring her hip and grimacing a bit. John moved to the top of the stairs, unable to help her up, but took her hand when she reached the top and steered her into the living room, easing her down into the armchair.

"Oh, dear, this hip! I've ran out of my soothers and I feel horrible." She grimaced again then smiled up at John. "Sherlock told me to come up and sit with you. He had to run out quickly this morning. Detective Inspector Lestrade came round with a case an hour or so ago and Sherlock- well, you know how he is, always dashing about." She smiled fondly.

John frowned. Why had Sherlock had left him behind to work on a case? He had thought, after the case at the bakery, Sherlock would again start taking him on cases- there had been no cases since then but John had assumed… Obviously he had been wrong. Or, John reminded himself rationally, maybe this case required more legwork than he could handle. He _was_ still limping about on his crutch and cast. John grimaced at the thing, wishing it was off for the hundredth time.

"Right. Well, if you're busy…I don't need anyone to sit with me." John said, uncomfortably, tired of being treated like an invalid.

"Oh, I don't mind, dear." Mrs. Hudson settled back into the chair, plumping the pillow. "Sherlock told me to keep you occupied and he would get back soon. Oh, and you're not to leave the flat."

John eased himself onto the sofa and tried to pin Mrs. Hudson with a penetrating stare- but he was sure he fell short of what Sherlock usually achieved. "Sherlock's been a bit odd about me leaving the flat for the last week. Do you know why?"

John immediately realized Mrs. Hudson knew something by the way she avoided eye contact and smiled nervously, her lips jerking slightly at the corners to keep the expression fixed.

"It's Sherlock, dear. He's always a bit odd." She shrugged and offered John some tea.

* * *

An hour later, Sherlock was still not back and John and Mrs. Hudson were sharing a large, cold lunch on the coffee table while watching an afternoon talk show. John had just started to shout, in his best Sherlock imitation, that _of course_ the man was not the boy's father…when his mobile rang.

The number was not one he recognized but, throwing Mrs. Hudson a puzzled look, he answered.

"John Watson?" It was a female voice, professional sounding, and John could hear office noises in the background.

"Yes?" He frowned again at Mrs. Hudson who looked concerned and turned the volume down on the telly.

"Mr. Watson, this is a check-up call from your doctor to inquire why you have not fulfilled your appointments to remove you cast."

"My appointments? I haven't made any appointments."

"Yes, sir, we have them on record. There was an appointment made when you were released from the hospital but a Mr. Sherlock Holmes called to cancel four days ago. We rescheduled for today but Mr. Holmes called to cancel that as well. You should know that the removal of your cast is important to the improvement of your health and the longer the cast remains-"

John tuned her out, his mind reeling with the knowledge that Sherlock had been keeping this from him. Why? Why had Sherlock canceled his appointments- and said nothing to him about it? It was only the removal of his cast- nothing huge or wrenching. It had only been just last night John had been moaning at how awkward his cast made sex. Sherlock had ignored him, pulling lightly at John's hips to urge him to move faster and talk less. But now John thought his lack of response was odd. Why had Sherlock been preventing the removal of his cast? Why was he keeping him in the flat? It made no sense.

He shook his head. It was probably one of those odd little Sherlock things he always did that drove John up the wall.

"When can I come in?" John interrupted the woman speaking and she faltered. He heard the clack of computer keys.

"We had a cancellation today, Mr. Watson, at 2:00pm?"

"Excellent. I'll be there."

He hung up and stared at the phone in his hands, feeling a bit lost. Why had Sherlock done that?

"John, dear, is everything all right?"

John frowned and shook his head. "Why does Sherlock not want me to leave the flat?"

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip and shook her head. "I don't know. He hasn't told me. I only know he doesn't want you to leave."

"Right, I'm going out." John stood from the sofa and limped over to his jacket, pulling it on with jerky motions.

"John, dear, I think you should stay here." Mrs. Hudson stood as well, dithering on the spot and ringing her hands, obviously torn. "Maybe we should call Sherlock-"

"_Sherlock_ is being odd and too protective. If he wanted me to stay at the flat for something important he would have told me. He's just being his crazy, over-protective self. I'm chuffed to get this damn cast off, _finally_, and start using my ankle again." John shook his head. "I don't know why he canceled my appointments."

"John, dear…"Mrs. Hudson was obviously torn and John stared at her. When she did not reply, he turned and began navigating the stairs.

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the body in front of him, unable to concentrate, and Lestrade was an annoying presence at his back, being extremely unhelpful. He was trying to solve the case as quickly as possible so he could return to the flat and John. He had felt itchy and irritable since he had left the flat that morning, kissing John gently while he slept before he left, making sure to leave the curtains open so John would not be scared when he woke up. Mycroft had assured him the flat was safe but Sherlock had opened the curtains in such a way that no one outside could see John, but the sun could still shine in. He still had not liked it.

Lestrade huffed behind him, though he didn't say anything, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If you did not want me to work the crime scene you should not have invited me, Detective Inspector." Sherlock said coldly, crouching beside the body- male, late fifties, eyes gouged out- and trying to take his mind away from 221B Baker Street and everything that could be going wrong while he was gone. John could have had a flash back, he could fall down the stairs going to see Mrs. Hudson, Moran could- Stop.

Sherlock mentally shook himself and focused back on the body. The quicker he solved the case, the quicker he could go home to John.

"Sherlock, we have the team standing by-" Lestrade began, trying to remind Sherlock that he was paying people to currently stand around and stare.

The mobile in his pocket began vibrating and Sherlock quickly extracted it and looked at the display. Mycroft. His heart thudded once before he answered it.

"Mycroft."

There was a pause then-

"_What_?" Lestrade watched as Sherlock paled dramatically. Sherlock tried to stand from his crouch and actually fell onto the pavement on his bottom, clutching the mobile to his ear.

"_Stop him_, Mycroft!" Sherlock choked on the rest of his words and Lestrade stared. He had never seen Sherlock so panicky.

"What do you mean- It's not _the ideal solution_!" Sherlock's face was suddenly transported in rage and he stumbled to his feet, ignoring the hand Lestrade offered him.

"If he dies- Mycroft- _if he dies_!" Sherlock's eyes were wild as he listened to his brother talk. "You can't guarantee- _why didn't you stop him_?"

Sherlock suddenly ended the call and whirled to Lestrade.

"I need a ride to St. Bart's. As fast as possible."

"_Sherlock_, we're in the middle of a crime scene- I can't leave-"

"It's _John_, Lestrade!" Sherlock stepped toward him, his hands fisted at his sides, and Lestrade saw the look in his eyes. Sherlock was keeping it together, but Lestrade could see the turmoil, the desperation, the fear in every line of Sherlock's body and his stomach dropped.

He grimly nodded and called Donovan over, placing her in charge and ordered Anderson, who had been waiting on Sherlock's deductions, to begin documenting the crime scene.

Sherlock was already at Lestrade's car, opening the door and climbing in. Lestrade hurried after him, threw the lights on and began speeding towards the hospital, zipping through the traffic, his heart pounding in his chest.

"What is it? What's going on?"

Sherlock shook his head, his mouth clamped tightly as if he were going to be sick.

When they were barely a mile from the hospital, traffic became increasingly heavy and even with the lights and siren, the car was barely creeping along. Lestrade cursed and honked his horn, looking for a way through the tangle.

Sherlock threw himself from the car and began running.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	21. Chapter 21

**Here it is- the next chapter for "I'd Be Lost Without My Blogger." I hope you all enjoy and I want to apologize for taking so long to update. I got sidetracked writing smut for "Sherlock Gets Drunk- For Science, John!" and this story fell by the wayside. There will be two more chapters after this one. I originally intended to make this the penultimate chapter but, while writing the last chapter, I found I had more to say and so...two more chapters!**

**I was inspired, however, to write a bit of smut for the last chapter of this fic so...onward we go!**

**:)  
**

* * *

He was not supposed to leave the flat- he had told him not to leave the flat- _why had he left the flat_?

Sherlock sprinted towards St. Bart's, fear a horrible churning weight in his gut. Somewhere in the buildings around St. Bart's, Sebastian Moran waited, lining up his shot to kill John when he emerged from the hospital. Mycroft had calmly assured Sherlock that his special ops team would stop Moran before he fired, would be able to intercept him before John was placed in _serious_ harm's way.

Sherlock did not believe him for a second. Mycroft would do anything for "the greater good."

A blinding realization flashed through Sherlock's mind as he ran with everything he had towards the hospital- but he stored it away for later examination.

His lungs were burning, the muscles in his legs screaming, and he ran faster, the rooftop of St. Bart's looming ahead of him.

Sherlock skidded around the corner, running flat-out, and saw John. The sunlight glinted off his blonde hair and he stood straight and handsome. He was leaning on his new cane in front of the hospital, scanning the street for an available cab. In an instant, Sherlock saw the reason he was still alive- the cast had made his ankle weak and John was continually shifting his weight trying to find a comfortable position to stand in, balancing himself with his cane and his good leg.

"Vatican cameos! Vatican cameos!" Sherlock screamed breathlessly, sprinting towards John as fast as he could, but his legs felt as if they were leaden. It took so much effort to move them and he knew, he knew, he would not reach John in time. It felt as if he were living in a nightmare.

_Please, God, let him live_.

John turned towards him, a puzzled smile tugging at his lips, and Sherlock felt a flash of irritated panic that John was not responding to their agreed-upon signal to drop to the ground. He can't hear me, he thought wildly.

"_Vatican cameos_!" Sherlock screamed, his voice breaking, and finally John understood- Sherlock was close enough to see his eyes widen. Before John could respond, Sherlock threw himself at John, tackling him to the ground, landing heavily atop John at the exact moment he heard the zing of the bullet as it tore past him.

Sherlock crouched over John's body, trembling, afraid, so very afraid to raise his head and check if John were alive or not. His entire life could change in the next second- again. John could be dead- again. _Please, God, please. I will do anything, anything, if you will only allow John Watson to live. Please. Dear God, __**please**__._

John groaned and stirred beneath him and Sherlock thought he would pass out from sheer relief. He did not pull away from his defensive crouch on top of John, instead tightening his posture in order to protect everything vital in case Mycroft's men had not managed to subdue Moran and he made a desperate attempt to succeed.

John groaned beneath Sherlock and stirred a bit, caught in the circle of Sherlock's arms on the cold pavement. He had been stunned when Sherlock launched himself at him, the breath had literally been knocked out of him and it had been a long, terrifying minute before he was able to breathe again. John's head felt as if it were about to split open from the violent contact it had made with the pavement and he was fairly certain he had a mild concussion from the way the earth seemed to spin around him. He gently shook his head and felt Sherlock tighten his posture above him. John stopped evaluating his own injuries when he became aware of the steady drip, drip, drip of blood on his face and he craned his neck to stare up at Sherlock in horrified shock.

Sherlock raised his head and the entire right side of his face was covered in a sheet of blood. John ran his hand through the blood, wiping it away from Sherlock's eye and cheek, making more of a mess- distantly aware that people were all around them, shouting, screaming, sirens wailing.

John continued to wipe at the blood on Sherlock's face and Sherlock blinked owlishly back at him. Finally, John found the wound, a deep but not serious graze from a…from a bullet at the side of Sherlock's head, inches above his ear. John stared, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Sherlock had almost been shot…

"John," Sherlock mouthed, his voice making no sound and John felt his hands cradling his face, checking for wounds. "John."

He took a shuddering gasp of air and suddenly every noise and sensation came flooding back in an abrupt rush. Everything was moving too quickly, people were trying to pull Sherlock away from him and they were clutching at each other, refusing to be separated.

The world spun nauseatingly as John was pulled to his feet and Sherlock grabbed him from the helpful bystander with a snarl and pinned him to the brick wall, sheltering him with his body.

"Sherlock, what-?"

"Sniper, John. Mycroft's men are _supposed _to be subduing him." The scorn and anger was evident in Sherlock's voice. John clutched the back of Sherlock's coat as his knees began to shake and he took great gasps of air, steadying his nerves.

"Are you all right?" his voice was shaking so hard John was surprised Sherlock could understand him, but he did.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yeah. Of course." John's voice squeaked and he winced.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice cut through the loud noises but John could not see him. Sherlock did not move from his defensive position.

"Sherlock- we have him. We got him-"

"Not in time, _Mycroft._" Sherlock spat, pulling away from John so he could glare at his brother.

Mycroft stopped a few feet from the pair and stared at his brother, adrenaline from his success diminishing as he saw the realization in Sherlock's eyes. The cold, implacable truth staring him back in the face.

While Sherlock glared daggers at his brother, John saw the police cars pulling up and the paramedics running towards them. He was quickly shunted to a gurney, shortly joined by a furious Sherlock who refused to leave and go to his own conveyance. An oxygen mask was affixed to John's face and he breathed deeply, his eyes wide, properly staring at Sherlock's blood-covered face. It looked worse than it was- there was always more blood with a graze than one expected- but the idea that Sherlock had been that close to being shot…shot in the head….John's stomach swooped and it was only with tremendous effort he was not sick on his way into the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock glanced up as Mycroft walked into his room. The paramedics had finally succeeded in separating he and John into different rooms. Private rooms- Mycroft's doing. John was being treated for his subsequent panic attack and concussion and Sherlock's nurse had just left after stitching up the bullet graze. He had been on the way to check on John when the door opened and admitted his brother.

Mycroft paused before closing the door, sealing them alone in the room. They stared at each other in silence for long minutes before Sherlock spoke.

"You knew."

Mycroft paused, his face carefully blank as he stared at his little brother. He did not have to ask what Sherlock was referring to. He did know, he had known from the moment he had looked at Sherlock outside St. Bart's. He also knew he had lost him. He saw it in Sherlock's eyes, the bottomless hate and disgust reflected there. Any small amount of love his brother may have still harbored for him was gone.

"Yes."

Sherlock launched himself at his brother and pain exploded in Mycroft's face. He did nothing to stop Sherlock's merciless attack. Sherlock pummeled him, his fists a blur as he hit Mycroft again and again, as hard as he possibly could. Mycroft allowed him to attack, distantly thankful Sherlock held no weapon. With one well-placed hit, he fell to the floor and Sherlock continued his silent attack, the only noises were the smack of flesh on flesh, the sound of Sherlock's foot repeatedly kicking Mycroft, the harsh breathing from pain and exertion.

Sherlock knew the exact points to attack and the exact force needed to inflict the maximum amount of damage and pain to his brother, and he used them all. His mind was full of rage and the mental image of how John had looked when he had been rescued, the way his damaged body had looked- the terror in his eyes when he panicked, his screams when he woke from nightmares- it all could have been prevented if not for his brother.

It had all been _for the greater good_.

Finally, Sherlock straightened and swayed, steadying himself on the bed, glaring at Mycroft's huddled form on the floor with utter disgust and loathing.

"I should let John kill you." He hissed, watching coldly as Mycroft gasped in pain, writhing a bit before staggering painfully to his feet. He held his broken arm at an odd angle and clutched his bleeding nose with the other, trying to blink blood from his eyes, his entire body radiating pain.

"You left him there." He spat, advancing on Mycroft again. "You left him with Moriarty _to die_."

Mycroft did not reply. He could not draw enough breath into his lungs (he was certain one was punctured) to reply- even if he had possessed the words. There were no words to defend himself. He had tried to defend himself to Sherlock in the past, explain why certain decisions had to be made for the greater good…but Sherlock never understood. At heart, he was still the little boy who had wanted to be a pirate. He would never understand.

"I never want to see you again. If I ever see your face again I will kill you." Sherlock said quietly, his voice low and serious.

Mycroft knew he was telling the truth. He was only surprised that Sherlock was not killing him that very minute. As it was, it would take long months for him to heal from Sherlock's attack. His well-deserved attack.

There were so many things he wanted to tell Sherlock. Mycroft's heart was hurting- he never thought he had a heart. He had lost his little brother. A lump rose in his throat as Mycroft suddenly remembered a very small Sherlock, hair curling wildly, face open and sweet, running up to him clutching a jar of bugs, proudly declaring his new experiment, begging Mycroft to help. He had destroyed that, just as he had destroyed many things.

No emotion showed on his face as Mycroft hunched in on himself, still trying to staunch the blood that dripped steadily onto the floor, and left the hospital room, in an effort to find one of his own.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me about Moran?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away. He sat on John's hospital bed, John stretched out, fully clothed on top of the covers behind him. The only light came from outside- the moon and sickly orange light from the streetlamps- and the darkness made Sherlock feel melancholy. He was eager to leave the hospital but John was being forced to stay for observation overnight.

"Sherlock. Why?"

Sherlock looked back at John but could barely make him out in the darkness. His reasoning seemed highly idiotic now. He _should_ have told John about the danger that was posed to him. If it had made John uneasy, scared…well, at least he would not have placed himself in danger. He would have been aware of it and not left the flat. But Sherlock always missed a vital clue- he had missed this one.

"I don't want you always protecting me." John's voice was silent and sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. He had almost lost him today…and something in his gut was telling him that he was losing him now.

"I hate that you didn't tell me for that reason. You thought I would panic…and I hate that I probably would have." His voice was tired with dull acceptance.

Sherlock did not try and deny it. Why deny the truth? He saw John shift on the bed and wanted to lie next to him, let John cuddle against him for comfort but Sherlock knew his presence would be rejected. John was warring with himself, hating himself, and would not want to appear any weaker.

They were silent for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"I never wanted it like this." John said, so low Sherlock almost didn't hear him. "I wanted us to be equals. Oh….I know…you'll always be cleverer than me but…this. You can't even tell me when my life is in danger because you know I'll fall apart. I'm not a complete idiot. I know all the little things you do every day to make sure I don't have a panic attack. It's…_amazing_. I…I love you so much for caring enough to monitor your every action…just for me. I appreciate it…I _really do_, Sherlock…but it's…it's horrible. You can't even…even hug me without me panicking." John choked, shaking his head, silent tears slipping down his cheeks, and once again, Sherlock felt like he was choking on words and unable to say a single damn one. "You can't even really...participate in sex, can't even really enjoy it, because you know one wrong move and I'll panic." John whispered, his voice ragged.

He didn't mind doing those things for John. Images flashed through Sherlock's mind- John leaning down to kiss him (he didn't care if he was lower than John or not, he only wanted to feel his lips against his)- John moving over him, extraordinarily sexy as he thrust his hips, slamming into Sherlock's body, and pulling Sherlock higher and higher, spiraling with pleasure (he longed to do that to John but…it wasn't important. He didn't care if he never did that to John…John making love to him was more than enough). He did want to wrap his arms around John but…John wrapping his arms around him and Sherlock turning to him, smiling into his neck…Sherlock was content to be in the warm circle, his own arms hanging at his sides.

Yes, it took effort and strategy but…it was working. John had few panic attacks and Sherlock was happy. He would be happy with whatever incarnation of John he could have.

"I hate feeling this way, Sherlock. I hate feeling weak and pitiful when I'm with you."

"What's your solution then?" Sherlock whispered back, already knowing what John would say. He would end their relationship. John was unhappy- it was obvious. He was an ex-soldier, an army doctor, used to being in control and strong. Anything less was hateful and unacceptable. Sherlock made him feel inadequate, feeble, pathetic, and therefore Sherlock must go. That would have been his own reasoning and he waited for John to tell him it was over.

John did not say a word, though. He sighed deeply and slid his hand across the bed until his fingers laced with Sherlock's. Sherlock lightly squeezed them, knowing not to press harder, and John withdrew his own with another sigh.

"I just need time, Sherlock. I need time to feel more like myself. Will you give me that?"

I would give you anything, John.

"Yes."

* * *

**Please don't kill me. I know this is a bit of a cliffhanger but I promise all will end well. Patience. :)**

**In my mind, this is a perfectly just way for John to react. He is a strong person, a bit beaten down right now, and he does not want to always feel weak with Sherlock. He'll find his way.  
**


	22. Chapter 22

**Ok, so I was slightly misleading in Chapter 21. I know I said this would be the last chapter, however I thought more needed to be said so...this will be the penultimate chapter. I always intended for there to be 23 chapters, plus a small epilogue, but I thought that was excessive and tried to scale it back. Now, I am realizing that I knew what I was doing all along. :) Chapter 23 will be posted in a few days.**

**I promise I am not trying to beat your feels to death with a baseball bat.  
**

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

The cab ride from the hospital the next day was silent and tension-filled. John stayed on his side of the seat, his hands in his lap, and Sherlock already missed the contact. He remembered what John said- time, he needed time, and Sherlock was beginning to understand that meant distance as well. Distance from Sherlock, from their relationship, from affection and sex, until John felt more like himself again. Sherlock could give John time and distance, and he _would_, but he could not stop longing for the small touches and everything else he had begun to expect from their daily interactions. Those were the very things that made John feel weak and pitiful when he was with Sherlock, due to the delicate way those actions were coordinated, so they had to stop.

Sherlock shifted and turned to face the window. He had more important matters to deal with- such as John's potential reaction to the news that Mycroft had allowed him to be kept by Moriarty and not made an attempt to rescue him. Before their discussion the previous night, Sherlock had decided not to tell John about Mycroft's involvement in an effort to protect him. He knew John would react badly to the news, possibly suffer a setback in his mental recovery, and had wanted to spare him that. After their discussion last night however, he realized John no longer wanted to be kept in the dark for his own protection.

It was a smart decision to tell him. Sherlock knew he had made a mistake by not telling John of the danger posed by Sebastian Moran. If he had told him, John would never have left the flat and never have been placed in danger. Sherlock would not allow the knowledge that Mycroft had abandoned him to his fate to hang over his head indefinitely. It…was painful to know he would be hurting John by telling him but…he knew it was what John wanted. He steeled himself for the task.

When they finally entered the flat (Sherlock ahead of John who was still painfully slow on the stairs due to his weak but healed ankle and who also refused any help), Sherlock fidgeted by the window until John had seated himself in his chair, leaning his head against the back and closing his eyes with a sigh. He looked peaceful and calm.

Sherlock knew it would not last.

"John. I have something to tell you."

John opened his eyes and stared at Sherlock soberly, detecting in his tone of voice and posture that something was very, very wrong. "What?"

* * *

Sherlock sat in his armchair across from John and watched as John's breathing got heavier and more labored, his cheeks red, the pulse at his neck jumping, his hands shaking and it took every ounce of willpower Sherlock possessed not to offer any form of comfort. John had made himself clear in the hospital. He needed time. He needed distance. Sherlock had agreed to give him that. It was still _agonizing_ to watch John panic, fall apart, and be rendered useless.

"Somehow…somehow…that doesn't s-surprise me when it…comes to your- your brother," John said in a shaky and dazed voice, his eyes wide and a bit vacant, as if he were seeing things Sherlock could not. "I w-wasn't important compared to the rest…rest of the world."

"That was _no_ excuse." Sherlock snarled angrily, without thinking. John jumped and Sherlock immediately regretted his actions, biting his lip and internally berating himself.

"So…so…all th-those months. All those months of…of…_fuck_…of _that_…he _knew_?"

Sherlock nodded once. John choked and suddenly bolted from his armchair, grabbing his cane, and stumbled into the bathroom. Sherlock heard him retching, the sounds of him being sick, and wished he had killed Mycroft when he had the chance.

John's mind was screaming with what Sherlock had just told him. Mycroft had _known_ that he was being held by Moriarty, had known John's location, and had done nothing to help him, to rescue him. Mycroft had known from the start, had made Sherlock believe John was dead, made everyone believe he was dead. If Mycroft had acted with the information he had possessed, John would never have been tortured, would never have known what it was like to scream in pain so loudly your throat turned raw and yet knew the worst was still to come. John gagged again and clutched the sides of the toilet weakly, memories flooding back to him and all the while, in the back of his mind, he was screaming that Mycroft could have prevented it, could have prevented it, could have prevented it.

Finally, when it was over, he straightened and tried to stop being sick, knowing Sherlock could hear him in the next room. John closed his eyes and took deep breaths, a calming mechanism his therapist had prescribed whenever he felt himself panicking. It centered him, gave him something to concentrate on besides the crushing fear that made his heart pound and his formerly broken bones ache as though they were freshly broken. He swallowed and grimaced, pulling himself up from the floor of the bathroom, flushed, then splashing cold water on his face.

When he came out of the bathroom, Sherlock had made tea (John felt too badly to attempt a joke) and a fresh cup was beside John's chair. He gave Sherlock a grateful smile as he took a refreshing sip, his hand shaking so badly his cup rattled on the saucer when he replaced it. He scrubbed his face with his hands and concentrated on his breathing.

"Your brother's a bastard, you know." John whispered, as he exhaled. He heard Sherlock sniff in agreement.

"I told him I should let you kill him."

John laughed weakly. "Mm, yeah that would make me…feel loads better."

There was silence and John's eyes popped open as he thought of something that had not yet occurred to him. "Is he…still alive?" he asked hesitantly on the next exhale, then inhaled and held that breath for a count of 10 before exhaling again.

Sherlock remained silent. He was still watching John breathe, his hands beneath his chin, his tea untouched. His face was carefully blank and John wondered what emotions Sherlock was hiding.

John thought about letting the matter rest but…the tightening in his gut made him ask again. He had to know. He did not think Sherlock would have really killed his brother but...

"Sherlock?"

"He's still alive, John. I wanted to kill him though." Sherlock smiled, a cold smile that made John want to look away. He was not afraid of Sherlock but something skittered along his spine when he looked at that evil smile that sat so perfectly on Sherlock's features. He decided it was an after-effect of his panic attack and dismissed it.

"I did beat him meticulously and with great pleasure . He will be in the hospital for a few weeks being treated for his injuries. He was fortunate I restrained myself and did _not_ kill him."

"Why didn't you?" John wanted to know. He had seen Sherlock almost kill someone for daring to hurt Mrs. Hudson. What had been done to John was rather different than what had occurred with Mrs. Hudson and it made sense that Sherlock's reaction would be in proportion to the offense committed against the person he loved.

Sherlock looked away awkwardly. "I made a promise to someone not to kill him on the condition you lived yesterday."

John stared at him, still breathing in and out slowly and feeling his heart beat returning to a normal rhythm in his chest. He decided not to ask to whom Sherlock had made the promise. He thought he had a pretty good guess, though.

"How long have you known? About your brother, I mean."

"I realized it yesterday when I was running to St. Bart's." Sherlock said, staring at John with his carefully blank expression. "I had suspicions before yesterday, ever since you were rescued, but nothing confirmed. I…I wasn't going to tell you until you told me how you felt last night." He confessed, allowing a bit of uncertainty to creep into his expression but he felt it was important to let John know he was doing as he had asked.

John smiled crookedly. "Thank you for telling me."

They sat in silence for a few moments, lost in thought, before John cleared his throat and took another sip of tea, his hands much steadier.

"Sherlock…what I said in the hospital…about time? I also meant um…I think it would be best if we…didn't have sex until I feel…more like myself. I'm not rejecting you. I just…need some space to sort myself out and…I can't do that if we're having sex every night or if I'm…cuddling you all the time." John looked uncomfortable and Sherlock smirked.

"I deduced that this morning, John."

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock smiled.

"If we get bored we could always play Cluedo."

* * *

John woke later that night, his body drenched in cold sweat, breath stuttering in and out, a great weight settled on his chest and making it hard to breathe. He quickly glanced at Sherlock who slept on, separated from John by the line of pillows laid down the middle of the bed. The pillows had been John's idea in order to prevent him from ninja cuddling Sherlock during the night. As they had settled onto their respective sides earlier that night, John had watched Sherlock pout and toy with the edge of one of the pillows, wrapping the casing around his finger then smoothing it out again. Finally, John had smiled and rolled onto his stomach over the pillow wall, his face hovering above Sherlock's.

"I love you." He said and kissed Sherlock, briefly and chastely. There had been no heat, no tangle of tongues and dark promises of pleasure. Merely the press of their lips together that sent a delicious thrill through both of them. John had pulled away, smiling, and Sherlock had smiled back, seemingly pleased and soothed by the attention.

Now, still gasping for air and shaking from his nightmare, John ran his hand over his face. He hated these nightmares, _hated them_. They always seemed so _real_, everything in such detail that for horrible moments John felt as if he were actually back in that room with Moriarty and the last few months had been only dreams. For a brief second, John thought of tossing the pillows aside and pressing himself against Sherlock to reassure himself he had not been dreaming this whole time, that all these wonderful weeks with Sherlock had been real. He knew it would feel wonderful, knew how his body would respond, calming and soothing, and already his hand was on the first pillow before he stopped himself.

He was using Sherlock as a crutch. He was not facing his problems, he was escaping from them by reaching for Sherlock. That was not fair to either of them and was not helping John in the long term. The incident yesterday with Moran had opened his eyes and made him realize that. He did not want to always be protected and cared for by Sherlock. He wanted to feel like himself, in control of his own body and mind, able to deal with anything and laugh and blog about it, not curl into the fetal position and panic. Not that he had done that, John thought with a twist of his lips, but that's what it felt like.

He stared over at Sherlock, his eyes tracing the planes of his face, drinking in the sight of him in the half-light of the room. He loved him. He always had. John could not imagine a life without him, a life without their being together. When he got through this, and John was determined he would, Sherlock would be there waiting for him on the other side. He knew Sherlock would stand by him through this whole ordeal, just as he had done from the time he had been rescued. If John needed his help, Sherlock would give it, but there were just some things John felt he needed to do on his own, and this was one of them.

John smiled at Sherlock's sleeping face and closed his eyes, relaxing. He decided to re-start his therapy sessions, which he now realized Sherlock had prevented him from going to because of Moran, in the morning. The breathing technique had certainly helped earlier and perhaps talking about…about it all would help. He also decided to start going to his physical therapy sessions again. It was doubtful he would ever walk without his cane but he could at least gain back the strength he had lost all those months. That was something to look forward to as John had always enjoyed being fit and in shape.

His plans made, John finally drifted back to sleep with a slight smile on his face, sighing contentedly.

* * *

When John sighed, Sherlock opened his eyes, fully alert. He eyed the pillow line with distaste, glaring venomously at the innocent looking bits of fluff, before his eyes found John's relaxed and sleeping face, softening. Sherlock smiled and settled into a more comfortable position to continue watching John sleep the rest of the night.


	23. Chapter 23

**A HUGE thanks to everyone who has supported this story. I honestly could not have continued without such amazing support. I have read every single comment and if I have not replied to you, I deeply apologize. I appreciate you all and thank you so much!**

**I am currently taking prompts. Mylia11 and I are will be working on a project together- check me out on AO3!- but once that is done I would sincerely love to begin working on any prompts you may have for me. Please PM with ideas :)  
**

**Herein we have the conclusion to I'd Be Lost Without My Blogger. There is emotion, sentimental sex, and (I hope) a satisfying conclusion. Please let me know what you think after reading.  
**

_**Much love. :)**_

* * *

_5 months later…_

John limped up the stairs at 221B Baker Street and opened the door to the flat, pausing in the doorway and staring about him before smiling and closing the door, making his way into the kitchen to prepare a cup of tea. He leaned his cane against the kitchen table as he navigated the small space between the stove and countertop, the soothing motions of preparing tea relaxing him and taking his mind from where Sherlock was- and all the trouble he could get himself in to without John there. Not that he could possibly do much if he were there with Sherlock but…he hoped Sherlock stayed safe.

His tea made, John grabbed his cane again and made his way into the living room, sinking into his armchair with a groan, grimacing at the twinge his ankle made when he pivoted his weight on it. It would never really go away, the damage had been too extensive, but at least he could walk and John was grateful for that. Even if that meant he used a cane and occasionally got left behind at crime scenes, such as he had been today, when Sherlock made a brilliant deduction and dashed off. It was _all_ fine.

John leaned his head back and looked around the neater-than-normal room. He smiled. It was one of Sherlock's many little ways of showing John he cared. The room had used to look as if it had exploded but since John had limited range of motion with his cane, Sherlock kept everything meticulously clean and picked up. John felt himself beginning to grin as he kept looking around the bright, sunshine filled room. All his things were side-by-side with Sherlock's until one could not tell where John's possessions ended and Sherlock's began. John remembered first coming back to the flat and seeing every trace of himself ruthlessly purged away, but none of the old, familiar hurt came from the memory. He sighed, relieved and happy.

After the incident with Moran, he and Sherlock had settled back into their old friendship and it was comfortable…to a certain extent. John accompanied Sherlock on cases and even if he got left behind a few times when Sherlock charged off after someone, he was still a part of the action, still essential to Sherlock's happiness. John, feeling useless and unnecessary after the first few times of being left behind, had suggested that maybe he was holding Sherlock back on cases and would it perhaps be better for Sherlock if John stayed at the flat? Sherlock had refused to speak to him for the rest of the day and only a lengthy, but strictly chaste, snog over the pillow wall that night had thawed Sherlock's anger.

John knew the separation and distance for the past 5 months had been hard on Sherlock, and it was hard for him as well, but it was necessary and John felt so much better. Since leaving the hospital, he had experienced a total of 5 panic attacks (not counting the one he had experienced after learning about Mycroft's involvement with his lengthy stay with Moriarty) and none of those in the last two months. He still had nightmares and some left him screaming, but he was quicker to regain his composure, was more aware of where he was, and Sherlock had only had to duck once and that had been months ago. John felt happier and more confidant.

His therapy was helping tremendously, as was his physical therapy. John had not gone into either expecting miracles to occur, and none had. He still had PTSD, but his mental state was better. He had techniques to deal with his panic attacks and sometimes was able to divert them before they even started. The symptoms of his PTSD were gradually fading and may eventually, over the years, completely disappear. Only time would tell, but John was very optimistic, as was his therapist.

Time would not tell with his ankle. He would always walk with a cane. There was only so much healing the human body was capable of, but John's strength in the rest of his body had returned and he was grateful for that. He no longer frowned when he looked in the mirror at himself. It was true he had a few more grey hairs and wrinkles- aging before his time due to traumatic experiences- but he looked lightly muscular, fit, toned, and felt very much like…himself. Like he had been before Moriarty.

Everything was falling into place in John's life and the only thing he was missing….was Sherlock. He missed the intimacy they had shared, the electric touches, and dark whispers. Sherlock had been very considerate of John's need for space and time. He knew Sherlock watched him, could sometimes almost _feel_ his eyes tracing his body and knew that, in Sherlock's mind, John was completely naked and they were doing unspeakable things to each other. It would make John's face, and other parts of his anatomy, burn but when he would look at Sherlock, his attention would be elsewhere, as if he had not been looking at John just seconds earlier. John knew he was doing this in an effort not to smother him, to allow John all the time and distance he wanted and not feel pressured into anything else.

John thought, as he looked once more around the flat he and Sherlock shared, that he was not feeling pressured at all.

He was ready.

* * *

Sherlock rode in silence back to the flat, and missed John. It had been necessary to leave John at the crime scene with Lestrade but he had still not liked it. He always wanted John with him but he had known there had been no time- he had to act quickly in order to catch the man who had murdered the woman that had been found earlier that morning, strangled in her bed, and John with his cane was…not very fast. He did not always leave John behind, but each time he did, it felt like he was rejecting him, cruelly reminding John of his disability and rubbing that in his face. John assured him that he did not feel that way in the slightest. Still, Sherlock did and he hated feeling that way.

Lestrade had texted him early that morning as Sherlock lay on his side, watching John sleep across the pillow wall. He liked to watch the way the early morning sunlight shone on John's blonde hair, interspersed with a bit of grey, and made his face look younger and more relaxed. Sherlock felt that moments like these were so intimate and breathtaking that they would be ruined if anyone were awake but him, even John. Lestrade had interrupted that precious time of Sherlock's day and his bad mood had begun.

The day had gotten worse when Sherlock had walked in on John getting dressed before going to the crime scene. It had been only seconds, but that was all Sherlock's keen eyes needed to commit the image of John's naked chest to memory. John had noticed and his eyes had gone wide and dark, and Sherlock had abruptly turned around and walked out of the bedroom before he molested John.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. He was perfectly willing to wait as long as John needed…but it was so hard to keep his hands to himself. It was perfect agony to be close to John, sleep in the same bed with him, and even have first-hand knowledge of how good things could be between them…and yet be unable to touch him at all. All he wanted to do was pull John on top of him, revel in the feeling of the shorter man pressing against him, and kiss John until he was too breathless to resist him anymore. If not that then at least a bit of handholding or a snog with John on the sofa (snogging was a rare occurrence and only used when one or the other had brushed death- or if Sherlock were particularly angry).

Since he and John had gotten home from the hospital, John had kept to his arrangement with the pillows. Sherlock respected John's wishes and did not hide or burn the pillows, though some nights he imagined slow, painful tortures for them. It was made worse by the fact that John inevitably gravitated to the pillow barrier every night and Sherlock would stare at him from his side, watching jealously as John buried his face in a pillow and wrapped his arms about it. There was one pillow in particular that Sherlock hated as he felt it mocked him. It looked entirely too smug when John clutched it.

He was losing his mind. He allowed his head to fall back with a small groan and reminded himself that this was for John, this was all for John. He could do it.

* * *

It was dark by the time Sherlock got back to the flat. As he climbed the stairs, he could hear the clatter and hiss of John cooking and smiled in anticipation when he opened the door. John beamed at him from the kitchen, his cane propped against the table, and Sherlock snorted, thinking this was entirely too domestic. Delightfully so.

The smile melted off John's face as he looked Sherlock over who was covered from head to toe in mud and rubbish.

"You actually managed to get a cab like that?" he asked in dismay and Sherlock felt a flash of petulance that John was not more concerned if he were hurt or not.

"Yes. I paid extra." Sherlock sniffed haughtily and John smiled affectionately at him. Sherlock's heart tripped over and by sheer force of will he kept his gaze from flickering over John's body. Instead, he gave a cursory glance at what John was cooking, and started to move further into the kitchen before John stopped him.

"Go shower, Sherlock. I don't think you being in the kitchen covered in…_whatever_ it is you're covered in would be sanitary. You sort of reek, too."

Sherlock's spine straightened in outraged dignity and John grinned wickedly at him before turning back to stirring the hissing pot on the stove. For a brief second, Sherlock thought of not showering, of walking around the kitchen just to irritate John- when he suddenly was able to smell himself, which he had _obviously_ not been able to do before. _How had he not smelt it?_ His nose twitched and his eyes watered a bit and he turned quickly away before John realized his victory.

When John heard the shower start, he laughed.

* * *

Sherlock, freshly scrubbed from the shower, ate in silence with John. His mind was preoccupied and he barely registered what he was putting in his mouth. John watched him from across the table, a crooked smile on his lips, which Sherlock also did not seem to notice. John thought he had a good idea as to what Sherlock's mind was preoccupied with but he wasn't certain. He felt happy giddiness rising up in his chest but tamped it down just in case Sherlock saw and deduced what it was about. John wanted to be able to surprise Sherlock for once in his life.

After dinner, while John cleared everything away, Sherlock went into the living room and took up his violin, beginning to play a piece but nothing went right. He was too frustrated to concentrate even on his violin. Finally, he put the instrument down in disgust and began to pace, hoping to center his mind and take it out of the gutter it had chosen to crawl into tonight. If this kept up he was going to have to leave the flat and stay at the morgue for a few hours.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked round at John who had sank down onto the arm of the sofa. John extended his hand and Sherlock frowned in bemusement before slowly walking over and placing his hand in John's, feeling the sensation all the way up his arm. He stayed a foot away from John, not wanting to overwhelm him. They had been in similar positions before, since the hospital, but never for long and sometimes Sherlock had seen the flash of fear slide through John's eyes before he stepped away. Now, no anxiety was to be seen.

John's smile grew wider and he tugged Sherlock closer until he stood between John's legs and Sherlock was looking down at him from his significant height difference. John licked his lips and Sherlock watched the motion, his heart speeding up. He studied him. There was no fear in John's face or posture. He looked…relaxed and happy, a bit playful. Something in Sherlock's chest loosened slightly and it was easier to breathe. He smiled back at him.

"I want to thank you for the last few months," John said, threading their fingers together, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "I know it's not been…easy. I needed it though."

"I was happy to do it." Sherlock said, his voice unintentionally dropping an octave from the surprisingly erotic feel of their fingers weaving together. John grinned wickedly and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

Still grinning, John pulled the hand he held down until Sherlock was forced to cautiously comply and bent over him, pressing their lips together. The angle was better this way, natural and easy, and Sherlock brought his other hand up to cup John's cheek, rubbing the stubble there. John made an approving sound in his throat and as they continued to kiss and John showed no signs of fear, Sherlock allowed himself to relax, allowed himself to enjoy it, his lips moving unhurriedly, caressing John's lips with his tongue.

John's hands fell to Sherlock's hips and he kneaded the flesh there, pulling Sherlock closer. Sherlock felt a slow heat beginning to uncurl in his stomach from the contact and he wondered if tonight John would make love to him… It had been months and Sherlock had missed the contact of their bodies together, the particular sort of pleasure only John could inspire racing through his veins.

Before Sherlock could react, John wrapped his arms around his hips and fell backward onto the sofa. Sherlock managed to catch himself before his full weight fell on John but only just. His body was stiff in surprise and worry; afraid John would feel overwhelmed, scared, and panic. They had never done this before- Sherlock had never been on top, they had never moved so quickly. Sherlock started to pull away but stopped when he realized John was laughing, light and happy.

"I like taking you by surprise," he confessed, still smiling up at Sherlock's frozen expression. "It never happens."

"You're always full of surprises, John." Sherlock replied and John grinned and wriggled backwards, half-pulling Sherlock along with him, until they were both stretched out on the sofa.

He then threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugged his head down to kiss him again. John slowly spread his legs as much as the sofa would allow and Sherlock slipped between them, rubbing their erections together. After months of no contact, the entirely new feeling of John beneath him was exquisite. Sherlock stopped kissing him and rested his forehead against John's, breathing deeply.

He could feel John breathing heavily beneath him and pulled away further, his heart thumping in dread.

"Are you all right?"

John didn't answer but strained his neck to bring their lips together again, his tongue briefly tangling with Sherlock's before his mouth sucked Sherlock's tongue into his own, suggestively sucking and stroking it. John's hips thrust upwards, rubbing their erections together in time with his sucks and Sherlock found he could only make a slight whine and thrust back, losing himself in the pleasure of being with John.

John finally released his tongue and kissed him, slow and long before pulling away to whisper against his lips. "I want you to fuck me."

Sherlock's heart stopped. "John…"

"Sherlock." His voice was steady and a bit commanding. Something in Sherlock's stomach flipped over. "I'm fine. This is why I took some time off. This is what I want." John thrust against Sherlock and he stifled a moan that would have sounded entirely too needy. "I want you…so badly."

Sherlock resisted, torn. His eyes were zooming around John's face, deducing, reading the truth in John's statement reflected back at him in every line but still…he was afraid of moving too fast, pushing John too far and undoing the careful work of months. He did not want to be responsible for more fear and panic in John. Maybe it would be better to wait longer? His body was insisting that they had waited long enough but this was John. He did not want to hurt him.

"Please?" John asked, licking his lips and looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock watched the movement of John's tongue over his lips as if it contained the answers to every mystery in the universe.

Sherlock's arms began to shake and he dropped to his elbows, pressing himself further against John. He watched, mesmerized, as John's pupils dilated until there was only a thin ring of color and his breathing hitched. John's erection pulsed against Sherlock's- not from fear then.

Sherlock swallowed, tried to speak, then swallowed again. "I'm amenable to the idea."

* * *

Later, John could not accurately describe how he and Sherlock made it to their bedroom. He knew he had left his cane behind in the living room and so he was a bit puzzled how Sherlock had gotten him from point A to point B…but somehow he found himself being gently settled on the bed, Sherlock still hungrily kissing him, their tongues coiling around each other, completely distracting John from trivial concerns like moving.

Sherlock's hands were trembling as he touched John's face, cupping his cheek to deepen the kiss and John arched beneath him, rubbing his body against the taller man.

Sherlock broke away and rested his forehead against John's.

"Please, John…please tell me if you're not okay." Sherlock's voice, his normally composed voice, was shaking. "I…I don't want to hurt you."

John's heart thumped painfully and he nodded before tugging Sherlock down into another kiss. This time, the tone changed, becoming heated, desperate, a prelude of pleasures to come. They lay side by side, their legs tangled together, kissing and slowly divesting each other of clothing.

It was so different from the previous times they had had sex. Sherlock had always tried not to grasp at John, not to exert any pressure that John would react negatively to. Sherlock could still remember their last time, John thrusting into him, Sherlock's legs bent at an awkward angle to keep them from wrapping around John's hips, his hands desperately gripping the headboard so as to appear nonthreatening but also so he would not accidentally grab John and scare him.

Now, Sherlock was still hyper aware of the placement of his hands and body, but he watched in fascination as John's eyes darkened beneath him when Sherlock stripped him of his trousers and pants and gripped his hips firmly in both hands. Sherlock's hands were everywhere, stroking John's face, his back, his hips and buttocks, memorizing the way John felt, moaning as John let him take him in his mouth, watching as John's face contorted in pleasure, not a trace of fear to be seen.

Sherlock could not stay in one place, he needed to move, memorize John's body with his mouth- an exploration John had always been averse to. Now, John arched beneath him when Sherlock kissed his way down one leg and up the other, stopping to swirl his tongue around John's erection and briefly take him in his mouth again, before licking at John's ribs. He nipped ever-so-gently at John's shoulders, lightly bit at John's neck and finally captured his lips in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips.

"Turn over?" Sherlock murmured and John complied, shivering.

Sherlock moaned at the sight of John spread out before him and purposefully started at John's ankles, grazing his teeth along the bones before running his hands up John's calves and licking and sucking at the bends of his knees.

"Jesus," John whimpered, and Sherlock pulled back, worried, before noticing that John was thrusting against the bed. He smirked and continued up, running his hands along John's arse, unable to stop himself from biting and sucking there as well, encouraged by the obscene sounds John was making with each movement. Sherlock licked a line up the center of John's back- John shuddered and arched, his hips thrusting again and again- before biting the back of John's neck and swirling his tongue along the abused flesh. Sherlock's erection bumped against John's arse and John pushed back against him.

Sherlock rolled John onto his back and John pulled him down atop him and thrust desperately. Sherlock felt lightheaded and wanted to laugh with happiness. He compromised by slumping against John and grinning, forcing John to quit kissing him and grin back at him. He pushed Sherlock away and rolled to fumble in their bedside table for lube. Sherlock paused and John looked at him, smiling, and waved the bottle at him.

"Sherlock. I'm fine. Really."

Sherlock took it with slightly trembling fingers and he and John had a brief but silent conversation as they stared into each other's eyes over the bottle.

_I don't want to hurt you._

_You won't._

_I don't want you to be scared._

_I'm not._

_John…_

_Sherlock. Please? Trust me._

Sherlock nodded and John moved to kiss him, pulling Sherlock forward until he knelt over John, the bottle of lube still clutched in his fingers. John's hips could not remain still as Sherlock carefully prepared him and more than once Sherlock had to remind himself that John had never done this before, to take his time and not rush. For someone with Sherlock's staggering intellect, he felt highly witless in this moment. When John was finally ready, Sherlock kissed him one more time before moving over him, his hands gripping John's thighs and keeping them apart. He looked one last time at John who nodded and Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath.

He went slowly, easing his way in by increments, holding his breath, deducing every nuance of John's face and body language, waiting for the least sign of fear or discomfort- ready to withdraw immediately. John's head was thrown back, digging into the pillow, eyes tightly closed, mouth open in a soundless cry of pleasure that made Sherlock want to hurry, go faster, begin thrusting hard- but he stopped himself, trembling, from doing that. He could wait.

Finally he was all the way in and John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, hovering over him, looking utterly beautiful and debauched, worried, concern and lust equally etched on his face as he stared back at John. John could see the tension in his frame, knew he was holding back, scared of overwhelming him, but John felt fine- more than fine. Doing this with Sherlock, equally, not feeling worry and fear clawing at his chest but instead love and adoration, lust and want, was wonderful.

It would be even more wonderful if Sherlock would just-

"Oh, fuck, _please move_." John's voice was ragged but commanding.

"Have I ever told you I love your army voice?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, beginning to slowly rock his hips, not yet thrusting, allowing John more time to adjust. He was trembling with the need to go faster but that wasn't important and Sherlock shoved the sensation away. He wanted John to enjoy this, this was more for John than himself- and that was utterly fine.

Sherlock curved his body forward, resting on his elbows, until he could touch his lips to John's. He could feel John relaxing even further beneath him and he smiled before applying himself more to the kiss until John felt boneless beneath him. Sherlock slowly withdrew, before ever so slowly thrusting forward. John groaned beneath him, his hips rising up to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck, breathing John's scent deeply, and set a steady rhythm, reveling in the pleasurable sounds John was making. It had been too long since they had been intimate together and that, coupled with the fact that this was John's first time being penetrated, made Sherlock think neither of them would last much longer.

Sherlock could feel his own orgasm building when he felt something wet slip along his cheek. He pulled away and found small tears snaking from the corners of John's tightly closed eyes. His heart stuttered and stopped and his mind flew back to the sounds he had been hearing- those had been in pleasure, right? Had John actually said "stop" and Sherlock had missed it- too caught up in his own pleasure?

"John?" Sherlock asked, stilling his hips, fearing the worst. John opened his eyes and Sherlock used his thumbs to wipe away the tears that were still falling.

"I wanted this so much. I wanted _you_ so much." John whispered huskily, bringing his hands up to cup Sherlock's cheeks and kiss him.

"I have always wanted you." Sherlock breathed against John's lips and felt John shiver beneath him. "I will always want you. Any way I can have you."

John tilted his head to kiss him again and Sherlock began moving, thrusting shallowly at first, then gradually picking up the pace as he felt John tightening around him. Finally, he pulled away from their kiss and began thrusting in earnest, knowing John was close and wanting to watch him come.

"Sherlock….oh god, Sherlock." John's eyes flew open and collided with Sherlock's. He looked desperate and wild, utterly wrecked and Sherlock reached down to wrap his hand around John's penis.

"Come, John. Come for me." Sherlock whispered, and watched as John's eyes closed as if he were in pain. It took only a few more thrusts and jerks of Sherlock's hand and he felt John tighten all around him before John shouted his name and was coming in sharp bursts over Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock increased his speed, desperate, feeling his own orgasm rising up but something wasn't right….something….what was it?

"John….John, please, _please, John_," Sherlock did not even know what he was begging for, only that he needed…he needed something….

John seemed to understand though, because he opened his eyes, glazed with lust and pleasure and emotion. "Oh god…Sherlock….just let go. Let go. _I love you_, I love you." He moaned, thrusting in time with Sherlock and that was all it took for Sherlock to give one last shuddering thrust and come, spilling himself into John, holding himself rigidly, closing his eyes when it became impossible to hold them open another second against the onslaught of sensation, feeling, emotion.

He sank down, boneless, and John caught his lips on the way down in a chaste kiss. The sensation sent a thrill through Sherlock's body and he shivered, moaning.

The best was yet to come, in Sherlock's opinion. Yes, the sex had been fantastic, and being able to actively make love to John was wonderful but that all paled in comparison when John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body and Sherlock was able to wrap his own long arms around John.

"Tighter." John murmured and Sherlock willingly complied, holding John against him, burying his nose in John's hair. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and was able to relax and simply enjoy the feeling of John in his arms. His John.

Sherlock could feel himself shaking and John pulled slightly away. His fingers traced Sherlock's face, wiping away the tears that had gathered there before placing a gentle kiss to his lips.

"I love you," he said and Sherlock looked back at him, unable to speak, but John understood and kissed him again.


	24. Epilogue

**Ok, I meant to leave this story alone- I really did, but this scene (and others but I promise to leave it alone) kept plaguing my mind and I could not get it out until I wrote it down. If you liked the previous ending, you could read this as a one-shot. This scene is meant to be a snap-shot of life with Sherlock and John a few months after the previous chapter took place.**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"_Bored_!" Sherlock bellowed, dramatically flinging himself into his armchair opposite John, who was currently watching telly (or _trying_ to watch telly over the sound of Sherlock throwing a tantrum) and _not paying attention to him_. He glared at John as if he were personally responsible for the lack of interesting cases.

"Bored-bored-_bored!_"

He closed his eyes in grief, sighing in frustration. When he finally opened them it was to find John staring at him rather oddly.

"What?" Sherlock asked, irritated.

John licked his lips, his eyes dropping to stare at Sherlock's mouth, then he blushed- actually _blushed_- and looked away. "Nothing."

Suddenly, Sherlock was not so bored.

"What is it?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, just drop it." John said, picking up a newspaper and trying to hide behind it. It took 3 minutes before he _felt_ Sherlock's eyes boring a hole through the paper and put it down with a sigh.

"I just…I promised you that if I got out…I would snog you when you were bored." John said, his voice low enough to send a delicious shiver down Sherlock's spine. He watched John's eyes darken and flick up and down his body.

"I am very… very…_very_ bored, John." Sherlock said, pitching his voice lower, just how he knew John liked. He decided to ignore the glaring fact that John had never promised him any such thing, but he was sure John would explain it eventually.

John smirked and stood, limping the few feet to where Sherlock sat. He straddled Sherlock's thighs and enjoyed the sight of the consulting detective beneath him, his face upturned, a wicked smile curving his lips, waiting for John to make a move.

John ghosted his lips across Sherlock's, teasingly, and Sherlock growled beneath him, his hands gripping John's hips and trying to pull him closer. John drew away and smirked, laughing a bit at the expression on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock suddenly lifted John and took him to the floor, capturing his lips as soon as John's back hit the carpet with a small thud. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips and cradled his face in his hands, steering the kiss and gentling it- a bit.

Sherlock was having none of that and caught John's wrists , tugging his hands away from his face. He placed them above John's head and smiled, a slow, predatory smile, before rubbing his erection against John's, the friction through their trousers both arousing and maddening.

"We…we can't again, Sherlock," John gasped, closing his eyes and arching up beneath him, rolling his hips to get maximum pressure to his cock. "Mrs. Hudson-"

"John, if you are going to talk about Mrs. Hudson at a time like this…" Sherlock said indignantly before leaning down, placing his weight on John's trapped wrists, and biting down on John's neck with retaliatory force, causing John to arch and thrust against him.

"Ok…ok…just…oh, fuck. Oh, fuckfuckfuck, just…don't be so l-loud this time."

"No promises." Sherlock replied and John laughed.

"Oh, fuck, I love you." He gasped as Sherlock did something entirely wicked with his tongue.

Sherlock laughed against his neck, the low rumble causing John to shudder. "I love _you_."


End file.
